Once Aboard the Lugger-- The History of George and his Mary

by W. W. Jacobs

  "No, no," she breathed; "I thought the same of you. I thought you mighthave found--"

  "Yes?"

  "Hush!"

  "Damn!" said Bill.

  She reappeared; again her tresses trickled to him. "It's all right. Ithought you might have found you didn't love me after all. Dearest, nothearing from you--"

  In sympathy of spirit Bill groaned: "What could I do?"

  She clasped her hands in a delicious ecstasy. "I know, I know. But youknow how foolish I am. I felt--oh, Bill, forgive me!--I felt that, ifyou had really cared, a way of sending me a message might have beenfound. Of course, it was impossible. And there was more than that. Whenwe parted last week, I thought you seemed not to care very much--"

  "Oh, Margaret!"

  "I know, I know. I know now how foolish I was, but that is what Ithought--and, Bill, it tortured me. I've not been able to sleep atnights. That is how I was awake just now."

  "Margaret, I believe you're crying."

  "I'm so--so happy now."

  "Oh, so am I! Aren't you glad I came, Margaret?"

  She murmured, "Oh, Bill!"; gave him a smile that pictured her answer.

  Mutually they gazed for a space, drinking delight.

  Her thirst quenched, Margaret said:

  "Bill, those nights, those terrible nights when I have been doubtful ofyou, filled me with thoughts that shaped into a poem last night."

  "A poem to me?"

  "About us. Shall I read it?--now that the doubt is all over."

  He begged her read.

  She was a space from his sight; then, bending down to him, in her handpaper of palest heliotrope, whispered to him by light of the beautifulmoon:

  "Our meeting! Do you remember, dear, How Nature knew we met? Twilight soft with a gentle breeze Bearing scent of the slumbering seas; Music sweet--'twas a nightingale, Trilling and sobbing from laugh to wail-- Golden sky that was flecked with red (Ribands of rose on a golden bed). Ah, love! when first we met!"

  She paused. "It was raining as a matter of fact, dearest," shewhispered, "and just after breakfast. But you know what I mean. That isthe imagery of it--as it seemed to me."

  Bill said: "And to me; a beautiful imagery."

  She smiled in the modest pride of authorship: "Oh, it's nothing, really.You know how these things come. To you in prose, to me in song. One hasto set them down."

  "One is merely the instrument," Bill said.

  "Yes, the instrument." She hugged the phrase. "The _instrument_. Howcleverly you put things!"

  Bill disavowed the gift. Margaret breathed, "Oh, you do; I have so oftennoticed it." Bill again denied.

  IV.

  Conventionality demanded this little exchange of them, and to-day theempress sway of conventionality is rarely rebelled. Even, as here, whentreading the path of love, the journey must constantly be stopped whilehandfuls of the sweet-smelling stuff are tossed about our persons.Neglect the duty and you must walk alone. For to neglect conventionalityis like going abroad without clothes; the naked man appears. Now,nothing can be more utterly horrid to our senses than a stark woman orstark man walking down the street. We should certainly pull aside theblind to have a peep, and the more we could see of the nakedness thefurther would we crane our heads (provided no one was by to watch); butto go out and chat, to be seen in company with the naked creature,is another matter. We would sooner chop off our legs. So with theconventions. The fewer of them you wear, the more naked (that is to say,real) do you become. Eyes will poke at you round the blinds, but youmust walk quickly past the gate, please. If you will not go throughthe machine and come out a nice smooth sausage, well, you must remainoriginal flesh and gristle; but you will smell horrid in nice noses.

  Is it not warming, as you read this, to know perfectly well that you arenot one of the sausages?

  V.

  When they had sufficiently daubed themselves, Margaret asked:

  "Shall I read the next verse? That was the imagery of our meeting; thisof our parting."

  Bill gulped. This man was fondling the scented tresses that trickledabout his face; speech was a little difficult.

  She put her page beneath the moon; gave her voice to its rapture:

  "Our parting! Do you remember, dear, How Nature our folly knew? Mournful swish of the sobbing rain; Distant surge of the Deep in pain; Whispering wail of the wandering wind, Seeking, sobbing, a rest to find; Fitful gleam from a troubled sky (Nature weeping to see love die). Ah, love, when last we met!

  "It was a perfect day, really," she said. "Very hot, and just beforelunch, do you remember? But there, again, it is the _imagery_ of itas it seemed to our inner selves. It comes to one, and one is the_instrument_."

  Bill's voice was hoarse. "Margaret, come down to me," he said.

  "I dare not."

  "You must. I must touch you--kiss you. You must come down!"

  "Bill, I dare not; I should be heard."

  He bitted his next words as they came galloping up. Dare he give themrein? And then again he bathed in the ecstasy of the scene. The blacksquare of the open window; the scented roses that framed it; the silvernight that lit its picture--her dusky face between her streaming hair,her white arms, bare to where the pushed-back sleeves gave them to thesoft breeze to kiss, the soft outline of her breast where the press ofher weight drew close her gown.

  It was not to be borne. The bitted words lashed from his hold. Hegasped:

  "Then I am coming up!"

  Was she aghast at him? he asked himself. He stood half-checked while hersteady eyes left his face, roamed from him--contrasting, as ashamed hefelt, the purity of the still night with the clamour of his turbulentpassions--and settled on an adjacent flowerbed.

  At last she spoke, very calmly.

  "There is a potting-box just there," she said. "If you turned it on endyou could reach the window, and then--"

  The box gave him two feet of reach. He jumped for the ledge--caught it;pulled; fetched the curve of an arm over the sill.

  Then between earth and paradise he hung limp; for a sudden horror was inhis Margaret's eyes.

  She put upon his brow a hand that pressed him back; gave words to herpictured alarm: "A step upon the gravel!"

  'Twixt earth and window, with dangling legs and clutching arms, inmuscle-racking pain he hung.

  Truly a step, and then another step.

  And then a very tornado of sound beat furiously upon the tremblingnight; with it a flash; from it the pattering of a hundred bullets.

  Someone had discharged a gun.

  As Satan was hurled, so, plumb out of the gates of Paradise, Bill fell.And now the still air was lashed into a fury of sound-waves, tearingthis way and that in twenty keys; now the sleeping garden was torn byrushing figures, helter-skelter for life and honour.

  Sounds!--the melancholy bellow of that gardener, Mr. Fletcher, as therecoil of the bell-mouthed blunderbuss he had fired hurled him proneupon the gravel; the dreadful imprecations of Bill striving to clearhis leg of the potting-box through whose side it had plunged; piercingscreams of Mrs. Major from a ground-floor room; shrills of alarm fromMr. Marrapit; _gurr-r-ing_ yelps from Abiram in ecstasy of man-hunt.

  Rushing figures!--Bill, freed from his box, at top speed towards theshrubbery; Mr. Fletcher, up from his fall, with tremendous springsbounding across the lawn; Abiram in hurtling pursuit.

  More sounds!--panic screams from Mr. Fletcher, heavily labouring; theprotest of a window roughly raised; from George's head, thrust into thenight: "Yi! Yi! Yi! Hup, then! Good dog! Sock him! Sock him! Yi! Yi!Yi!"

  We must seek the fuse that touched off this hideous turbulence.

  CHAPTER III.

  Alarums And Excursions By Night.

  I.

  We are going into a lady's bedroom, but I promise you the thing shall benicely done: there shall not be a blush.

  It was midnight when Bill Wyvern projected the scheme whose executionwe have followed through sweetness to disaster. Two hours earlier theMarrapi
t household had sought its beds.

  It was Mr. Marrapit's wise rule that each member of his establishmentshould pass before him as he or she sought their chambers. Night is thehour when the thoughts take on unbridled licence; and he would sendhis household to sleep each with some last admonition to curb fantasticwanderings of the mind.

  Upon this night Mr. Marrapit was himself abed of the chill that Margarethad mentioned in her note to Bill. But the review was not thereforeforegone. Upon his back, night-capped head on pillow propped, he lay asthe minute-hand of his clock ticked towards ten.

  His brow ruffled against a sound without his door. He called:

  "Mrs. Armitage!"

  "Sir?" spoke Mrs. Armitage through the oak.

  "Breathe less stertorously."

  Mrs. Armitage, his cook, waiting outside upon the mat, gulped wrath;respirated through open mouth.

  The clock at Mr. Marrapit's elbow gave the first chime of ten. InstantlyMrs. Armitage tapped.

  "Enter," said Mr. Marrapit.

  She waddled her stout figure to him. Behind her Clara and Ada, thosetrim maids, took place.

  Mr. Marrapit addressed her. "To-morrow, Mrs. Armitage, arouse your girlsat six. Speed them at their toilet; set them to clean your flues."He glanced at a tablet taken from beneath his pillow. "At 4.6 thisafternoon I smelt soot."

  "The flues were cleaned this morning, sir."

  "Untrue. Your girls were late. Prone in suffering upon my couch, my earstell me all that is accomplished in every part of the house. Ten minutesafter your girls descended I heard the kitchen fire roar. I suspectparaffin."

  Mrs. Armitage wriggled to displace the blame. "I rose them at six, sir.They sleep that heavy and they take that long to dressing, it's a wonderto me they ever do get down."

  Mr. Marrapit addressed the sluggards. "Shun the enervating couch. Springto the call. Cleanliness satisfied, adorn not the figure; pursue theduties. Ponder this. Seek help to effect it. Contrive a special prayer.To your beds."

  They left him; upon the mat encountered Frederick, and him, in abandonof relief, dug vitally with vulgar thumbs.

  II.

  Squirming, Frederick, the gardener's boy, advanced to the bedside.

  Mr. Marrapit sternly regarded him: "Recite your misdeeds."

  "I've done me jobs, sir."

  "Prostrated, I cannot check your testimony. One awful eye above alonecan tell. Upon your knees this night search stringently your heart.Bend."

  Frederick inclined his neck until his forehead was upon the coverlet.Mr. Marrapit scanned the neck.

  "Behind the ears are stale traces. Cleanse abundantly. To your bed."

  Without the door Frederick encountered Mr. Fletcher. "You let me catchyou reading abed to-night," Mr. Fletcher warned him.

  "Cleanse yer blarsted ear-'oles," breathed Frederick, pushing past.

  III.

  Mr. Fletcher moved in to the presence.

  "Is all securely barred, bolted and shuttered?" Mr. Marrapit asked.

  "It's all right."

  "I am apprehensive. This is the first night I have not accompanied youupon your round. Colossal responsibility lies upon you. Should thievesbreak through and steal, upon your head devolves the crime."

  Wearily Mr. Fletcher repeated: "It's all right."

  Mr. Marrapit frowned: "You do not inspire confidence. Sleep films youreye. I shudder for you. Women and children are in your care this night.The maids, Mrs. Armitage, Mrs. Major, my daughter, the young life ofFrederick, are in your hands. What if rapine and murder, concealed inthe garden, are loosed beneath my roof this night?"

  Mr. Fletcher passed a fist across his brow; spoke wearily: "It's allright, Mr. Marrapit. I can't say more; I can't do more. I tell you againit's all right."

  "Substantiate. Adduce evidence."

  Mr. Fletcher raised an appealing hand: "How can I prove it? My word's agood word, ain't it? I tell you the doors are locked. I can't bring 'emup to show you, can I? I'm a gardener, I am."

  "By zeal give proof. Set your alarum-clock so that twice in the nightyou may be roused. Gird then yourself and patrol. But lightly slumber.Should my bell sound in your room spring instantly to my bedside. Toyour couch."

  Battling speech, Mr. Fletcher moved to the door. At the thresholdprotest overcame him. He gave it vent: "I should like to ast if I wasengaged to work by night as well as day? Can't I even have me rest?'Ow many nights am I to patrol the house? It's 'ard--damn 'ard. I'm agardener, I am; not a watchdog."

  "Away, insolence."

  Insolence, upon the stairs, morosely descending, drew aside to give roomto Margaret and George.

  Margaret parted her lips at him in her appealing smile. "Oh, Mr.Fletcher," in her pretty way she said, "you locked me out. Indeed youdid." She smiled again; tripped towards Mr. Marrapit's door.

  Mr. Fletcher stayed George, following. "Mr. George, did you shut upsecure behind Miss Margaret?"

  George reassured him; questioned his earnestness.

  Mr. Fletcher pointed through a window that gave upon the garden. "I'vethe 'orrors on me to-night," he said. "According to Master there'srapine lurking in them bushes. Mr. George, what'll I do if there'srapine beneath this roof to-night?"

  "Catch it firmly by the back of the neck and hold its head in a bucketof water," George told him.

  Mr. Fletcher passed, pondering the suggestion. "Only something to dowith rats after all," he cogitated with wan smile of relief.

  IV.

  Margaret, at her father's bedside, luxuriously mouthed the fine phrasesof the Book of Job which nightly she read him. Her chapter finished, sheinquired: "Shall I read on?"

  "Does Job continue?"

  "No, father. The next begins, 'Then answered Bildad, the Shuite.'"

  George coughed upon the threshold.

  "Terminate," said Mr. Marrapit. "Bildad is without."

  "Oh, father, George is not!"

  "He torments me. He is Bildad. Terminate. To your bed."

  She pressed a warm kiss upon Job's brow; took on her soft cheek thesalute of his thin lips. "You have everything, dear father?"

  "Prone on my couch I lack much. I am content. You are a good girl,Margaret."

  "Oh, father!" She tripped from the room in a warmth of satisfaction.

  The rough head of Bildad the Shuite came round the door; spoke "Goodnight."

  "Approach," said Job. Bildad's legs came over the mat. "You seek yourroom? But not your couch?"

  "I'm going to bed, if that's what you mean," George told him.

  Mr. Marrapit groaned. "Spurn it. Shun sloth. In the midnight oil set thewick of knowledge. Burn it, trim it, tend it."

  George withdrew to his room; set the midnight pipe in his mouth; leaningfrom his window sped his thoughts to Battersea.

  V.

  One member of the house remained to be sent to sleep. Mrs. Major put asoft knuckle to the door; came at the call; whispered "I thought I mightdisturb you."

  "You never disturb me, Mrs. Major."

  A little squeak sprung from the nutter in the masterly woman's heart.

  "You sigh, Mrs. Major?"

  "Oh, Mr. Marrapit, I can't bear to see you lying there. The"--she pausedagainst an effort, then took the aspirate in a masterly rush--"the houseis not the same without you."

  "Your sympathy is very consoling to me, Mrs. Major."

  "Oh, Mr. Marrapit!" She plunged a shaft that should try him: "I wish Ihad the right to give you more."

  "Your position in this house gives you free access to me, Mrs. Major.Regard your place as one of my own circle. Do not let deference stifleintercourse."

  The masterly woman hove a superb sigh. "If you knew how I feel yourkindness, Mr. Marrapit. Truly, as I say to myself every night, fair ismy lot and goodly is my--" Icy dismay took her. Was the missing word"hermitage" or "heritage"? With masterly decision she filled the blankwith a telling choke; keyed her voice to a brilliant suggestion ofbrightness struggling with tears: "The sweetling cats are safelysleeping. I have come straight fr
om them. Ah, how they miss you! Howwell they know you suffer!"

  "They do?" A tremble of pleasure was in Mr. Marrapit's voice.

  "They does--do." Mrs. Major recited their day, gave their menu. "I mustnot tarry," she concluded; "you need rest. Good night, Mr. Marrapit.Good night."

  "Good night, Mrs. Major."

  Mr. Marrapit put out his candle.

  VI.

  And now in every room, save one, Sleep drew her velvet fingers downrecumbent forms; pressed eyelids with her languorous kiss; upon her warmbreast pillowed willing heads; about her bedfellows drew her Circe arms.

  Mrs. Major's room was that single exception, and it is that masterlywoman's apartment we now shall penetrate.

  Hurrying to semi-toilet; again assuring herself that the key was turned;peering a last time for lurking ravishers beneath the bed, Mrs. Majorthen fumbled with keys before her box--threw up the lid.

  Down through a pile of garments plunged her arm. Her searching fingersclosed about her quest and a very beautiful smile softened her face--asmile of quiet confidence and of trust.

  In greater degree than men, women have this power of taking strengthfrom the mere contact of an inanimate object. A girl will smile allthrough her sleep because, hand beneath pillow, her fingers are abouta photograph or letter; no need, as with Mrs. Major there was no need,even to see the thing that thus inspires. The pretty hand will delve torecesses of a drawer, and the thrill that brings the smile will runup from, it may be, a Bible, a diary, or a packet of letters touched.Dependent since Eden, woman is more emotionally responsive to aught thatgives aid than is man; for man is accustomed to battle for his prizes,not to receive them.