This evening, however, the ladies had made their toilet, and the door was opened after a delay merely sufficient to enable them to try and guess the identity of the guest before the revelation. Poppy Tyrell opened it, and turned upon him eyes which showed the faintest trace of surprise.
“Good evening,” said Fraser, holding out his hand.
“Good evening,” said the girl.
“Fine weather we’re having,” said the embarrassed ex-mate, “for June,” he added, in justification of the remark.
Miss Tyrell assented gravely, and stood there waiting.
It is probable that two members at least of the family would have been gratified by the disappearance of the caller then and there, but that Mr. Wheeler, a man of great density and no tact whatever, came bustling out into the passage, and having shaken hands in a hearty fashion, told him to put his hat on a nail and come in.
“No news of the cap’n, I suppose?” he asked, solemnly, after Fraser was comfortably seated.
“Not a word,” was the reply.
The dock-foreman sighed and shook his head as he reflected on the instability of human affairs. “There’s no certainty about anything,” he said, slowly. “Only yesterday I was walking down the Commercial Road, and I slipped orf the curb into the road before you could say Jack Robinson.”
“Nearly run over?” queried Fraser.
Mr. Wheeler shook his head. “No,” he said, quietly.
“Well, what of it?” enquired his son.
“It might just as well have been the edge of the dock as the curb; that’s what I mean,” said Mr. Wheeler, with a gravity befitting his narrow escape.
“I’m alwis telling you not to walk on the edge, father,” said his wife, uneasily.
The dock-foreman smiled faintly. “Dooty must be done,” he said, in a firm voice. “I’m quite prepared, my life’s insured, and I’m on the club, and some o’ the children are getting big now, that’s a comfort.”
A feeling of depression settled on all present, and Augustus Wheeler, aged eight, having gleaned from the conversation that his sire had received instructions, which he intended promptly to obey, to fall into the dock forthwith, suddenly opened his mouth and gave vent to his affection and despair in a howl so terrible that the ornaments on the mantelpiece shook with it.
“Don’t scold ‘im,” said the dock-foreman, tenderly, as Mrs. Wheeler’s thin, shrill voice entered into angry competition with the howl; “never mind, Gussie, my boy, never mind.”
This gentleness had no effect, Gussie continuing to roar with much ardour, but watching out of the corner of one tear-suffused eye the efforts of his eldest sister to find her pocket.
“Hold your noise and I’ll give you a ha’penny,” she said, tartly.
Gussie caught his breath with a sob, but kept steam up, having on some similar occasions been treated with more diplomacy than honesty. But to-day he got the half-penny, together with a penny from the visitor, and, having sold his concern in his father for three halfpence, gloated triumphantly in a corner over his envious peers.
“Death,” said Mr. Wheeler, slowly, after silence had been restored, “is always sudden. The most sudden death I knew ‘appened to a man who’d been dying for seven years. Nobody seemed to be able to believe he’d gone at last.”
“It’s a good job he wasn’t married,” said Mrs. Wheeler, raising herself on her elbow; “sailors ‘ave no right to marry at all. If I thought that one ‘o my gals was goin’ to marry a sailor, I don’t know what I shouldn’t do. Something steady on shore is the thing.”
“I don’t know,” said the tactless Mr. Wheeler. “I think if I was a gal I should like to marry a sailor; there’s something romantic about them. I often wish I’d been a sailor.”
“Then you wouldn’t ‘ave ‘ad me,” said the lady from the sofa, grimly.
Mr. Wheeler sighed, but whether at the thought of what he might have lost or what he had gained, cannot be safely determined. Still in a morbid mood, he relapsed into silence, leaving Fraser to glance anxiously to where Poppy, pale and pretty, sat listening to the clumsy overtures of Mr. Bob Wheeler.
“I might ‘ave ‘ad two or three sailors if I’d liked,” continued Mrs. Wheeler, musingly, “but I wouldn’t.”
Fraser murmured his admiration at her firmness.
“There was Tom Rogers, ‘e was the first,” said Mrs. Wheeler; “you remember ‘im, father?”
“Chap with bow legs and a squint, wasn’t he?” said the dock-foreman, anxious to please.
“I never saw ‘im squint,” said his wife, sharply. “Then there was Robert Moore — he was number two, I think.”
“‘Ad a wife a’ready,” said Mr. Wheeler, turning to the visitor; “‘e was a bright lot, ‘e was.”
“I don’t know what they saw in me, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Wheeler, with a little modest laugh; “it wasn’t my good looks, I’m sure.”
“You ‘ad something better than good looks, my dear,” said the dock-foreman, affectionately, “something what’s wore better.”
Mrs. Wheeler turned on the sofa, and detecting Gussie in the act of using his mouth as a moneybox, upbraided him shrilly and sent him into a corner. She then brought sundry charges of omission and commission against the other children, until the air was thick with denials and explanations, in the midst of which Fraser turned towards Poppy.
“I want to have a few minutes’ talk with you, Miss Tyrell,” he said, nervously.
The girl looked up at him. “Yes,” she said, gravely.
“I mean alone,” continued the other, marvelling at his hardihood; “it’s private.”
He lowered his voice from a shout to its normal tone as Emma Wheeler in self-defence opened the door and drove the small fry out.
“I’ve not got my rooms now,” said the girl, quietly.
“Well, my dear—” began the dock-foreman.
“Don’t interfere, father,” said Mrs. Wheeler somewhat sharply. “I’m sure Mr. Fraser needn’t mind saying anything before us. It’s nothing he’s ashamed of, I’m sure.”
“Certainly not,” said Fraser, sternly, “but it’s quite private for all that. Will you put your hat on and come out a little way, Miss Tyrell?”
“That I’m sure she won’t,” said the energetic Mrs. Wheeler. “She’s that particular she won’t even go out with Bob, and they’re like brother and sister almost. Will she, Bob?”
Mr. Bob Wheeler received the appeal somewhat sullenly, and in a low voice requested his parent not to talk so much. Fraser, watching Poppy closely, saw with some satisfaction a tinge of colour in her cheek, and what in any other person he would have considered a very obstinate appearance about her shapely chin.
“I’ll get my hat on, if you’ll wait a minute,” she said, quietly.
She rose and went upstairs, and Fraser with a cheerful glance at Mrs. Wheeler entered into conversation with her husband about overside work in the docks, until the door was pushed open a little to reveal Miss Tyrell ready for walking.
They walked on for some little time in silence. The sun had set, and even in the close streets of Poplar the evening air was cool and refreshing. When this fact had thoroughly impressed itself on Mr. Fraser’s mind he communicated it to Miss Tyrell.
“It’s very pleasant,” she answered, briefly. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
“About a lot of things,” said Fraser. “What a tremendous lot of children there are about here.”
Miss Tyrell coldly admitted an obvious fact, and stepping out into the road to avoid spoiling a small maiden’s next move at “hop scotch,” returned to the pavement to listen to a somewhat lengthy dissertation upon the game in question.
“What did you want to say to me?” she asked at length, turning and regarding him.
“In the first place,” said Fraser, “I wanted to tell you that, though nothing has been heard of Captain Flower, I feel certain in my own mind that he has not been drowned.”
Miss Tyrell shook
her head slowly.
“Then I ought to tell you that I have left the Foam” continued the other. “I think that there is some idea that I knocked Flower overboard to get his place.”
The girl turned quickly, and her face flushed. “How absurd,” she said, indignantly, and her manner softened.
“Thank you,” said Fraser. “If you don’t believe it, I don’t care what anybody else thinks.”
Miss Tyrell, looking straight in front of her, stole a glance at this easily satisfied young man from the corner of her eye. “I should never expect to hear of you doing anything wicked,” she said. Fraser thanked her again, warmly. “Or venturesome,” added Miss Tyrell, thoughtfully. “You’re not the kind.”
They walked on in silence; indignant silence on the part of the ex-mate.
“Then you are out of a berth?” said Poppy, not unkindly.
Fraser shook his head and explained. “And I told my father about you,” he added, nervously. “He knew Flower very well, and he told me to say that he would be very pleased and proud if you would come down and stay with him at Bittlesea for a time.”
“No, thank you,” said Miss Tyrell.
“The air would do you good,” persisted Fraser; “you could come down by train or come down with me on the Swallow next week.”
Miss Tyrell repeated her refusal. “I must stay in London and get something else to do,” she said, quietly.
“What do you think of doing?” enquired Fraser.
“Anything I can get,” was the reply.
“And in the meantime — —” he began, nervously.
“In the meantime I’m living on the Wheelers,” said the girl, pressing her lips together; “that was what you were going to say, wasn’t it?”
“I was not going to say anything of the kind,” said Fraser, warmly. “I was not thinking of it.”
“Well, it’s true,” said Poppy, defiantly.
“It isn’t true,” said Fraser, “because you will pay them back.”
“Shall we turn back?” said the girl.
Fraser turned and walked beside her, and, glancing furtively at the pale, proud face, wondered how to proceed.
“I should be delighted if you would come to Bittlesea,” he said, earnestly, “and I’m sure if Flower should ever turn up again, he would say it was the best thing you could have done.”
“Thank you, but I prefer to stay here,” was the reply, “and I don’t wish to be ungrateful, but I wish that people would not trouble me with their charity.”
She walked on in silence, with her face averted, until they reached Liston Street, and, stopping at the door, turned to bid him good-bye. Her face softened as she shook hands, and in the depths of her dark eyes as they met his he fancied that he saw a little kindness. Then the door opened, and, before he could renew his invitation, closed behind her as rapidly as Mr. Bob Wheeler could perform the feat.
CHAPTER XIV.
When the tide is up and the sun shining, Sea-bridge has attractions which make the absence of visitors something of a marvel to the inhabitants. A wandering artist or two, locally known as “painter-chaps,” certainly visit it, but as they usually select subjects for their canvases of which the progressive party of the town are heartily ashamed, they are regarded as spies rather than visitors, and are tolerated rather than welcomed. To a citizen who has for a score of years regretted the decay of his town, the spectacle of a stranger gloating over its ruins and perpetuating them on canvas is calculated to excite strong doubts as to his mental capacity and his fitness to be at large.
On a summer’s evening, when the tide is out and the high ground the other side of the river is assuming undefinable shadows, the little town has other charms to the meditative man. Such life as there is, is confined to the taverns and the two or three narrow little streets which comprise the town. The tree-planted walk by the river is almost deserted, and the last light of the dying day is reflected in the pools and mud left by the tide.
Captain Nibletts, slowly pacing along and smoking his pipe in the serenity of the evening, felt these things dimly. His gaze wandered from a shadowy barge crawling along in mid-channel to the cheery red blind of Boatman’s Arms, and then to the road in search of Captain Barber, for whom he had been enquiring since the morning. A stout lady stricken in years sat on a seat overlooking the river, and the mariner, with a courteous salutation, besought her assistance.
“I’ve been looking for him myself,” said Mrs. Banks, breathlessly, “and now my Elizabeth’s nowhere to be found. She’s been out since two o’clock this afternoon.”
Nibletts pointed up the road with his pipe. “I see her only ten minutes ago with young Gibson,” he said, slowly.
“Which way was they going?” demanded the old lady, rising.
“I don’t know,” said Nibletts. “I don’t think they knew either an’ what’s more, I don’t think they cared.”
The old lady resumed her seat, and, folding her hands in her lap, gazed in a troubled fashion across the river, until the figure of another woman coming along the walk brought her back to every-day affairs.
“Why, it’s Mrs. Church,” said Nibletts. “He’s nowhere to be found,” he shouted, before she reached them.
“He?” said the widow, slowly. “Who?”
“Cap’n Barber,” replied the mariner.
“Oh, indeed,” she said, politely. “Good evening, Mrs. Banks.”
Mrs. Banks returned the courtesy. “It looks as though Cap’n Barber has run away,” she said, with attempted jocularity.
Mrs. Church smiled a superior smile. “He is not far off,” she said, quietly.
“Resting, I suppose,” said Mrs. Banks, with intent.
Mrs. Church took higher ground. “Of course this sad affair has upset him terribly,” she said, gravely. “His is a faithful nature, and he can’t for-get. How is Miss Banks bearing up?”
Mrs. Banks, looking up suspiciously, said, “Wonderful, considering,” and relapsed into silence until such time as her foe should give her an opening. Mrs. Church took a seat by her side, and Nibletts, with a feeling of something strained in the atmosphere, for which he could not account, resumed his walk.
He was nearly up to Captain Barber’s house when he saw a figure come out of the lane by the side, and after glancing furtively in all directions make silently for the door. The watching Nibletts quickening his pace, reached it at almost the same moment.
“Mrs. Banks is looking for you,” he said, as he followed him into the parlour.
Captain Barber turned on him a weary eye, but made no reply.
“And Mrs. Church, too; at least, I think so,’ continued the other.
“Cap’n Nibletts,” said the old man, slowly, “I ‘ope you’ll never live long enough to be run arter in the way I’m run arter.”
The astonished mariner murmured humbly that he didn’t think it was at all likely, and also that Mrs. Nibletts would probably have a word or two to say in the matter.
“From the moment I get up to the moment I get to bed, I’m run arter,” continued the hapless Barber. “Mrs. Church won’t let me go out of ‘er sight if she can help it, and Mrs. Banks is as bad as she is. While they was saying nice things to each other this morning in a nasty way I managed to slip out.”
“Well, why not get rid o’ Mrs. Church?” said the simple Nibletts.
“Rid o’ Mrs. Church!” repeated Captain Barber, aghast; “why don’t you get rid o’ your face, Nibletts?” he asked, by way of comparison merely.
“Because I don’t want to,” replied the other, flushing.
“Because you can’t” said Captain Barber, emphatically. “And no more can’t I get rid of ‘er. You see, I ‘appened to take a little notice of ‘er.”
“Oh, well,” said the other, and sighed and shook his head discouragingly.
“I took a little notice of ‘er,” repeated Captain Barber, “and then to spare her feelings I ‘ad to sort o’ let ‘er know that I could never marry for Fred’s sake, d�
��ye see? Then on top of all that poor Fred goes and gets drownded.”
“But have you promised to marry her?” asked Nibletts, with a cunning look.
“Of course I’ve not,” rejoined Captain Barber, testily; “but when you know as much about wimmen as I do, you’ll know that that’s got nothing to do with it. It gets took for granted. Mrs. Church’s whole manner to me now is that of a engaged young person. If she was sitting here now she’d put ‘er hand on top o’ mine.”
“Not before me?” said Nibletts, in a shocked voice.
“Before the Prince of Wales and all the Royal Family,” replied Captain Barber, with conviction. “You’ve no idea how silly and awkward it makes me feel.”
“Here she comes,” said Nibletts, in a low voice, “and Mrs. Banks and her daughter, too.”
Captain Barber coughed and, sitting upright, strove to look unconcerned as the three ladies came into the room and expressed their pleasure at seeing him.
“I couldn’t think what ‘ad happened to you,” said Mrs. Banks, as she sank panting into a chair, and, unfastening her bonnet-strings, sat regarding him with her hands on her knees.
“I knew he was all right,” said Mrs. Church, folding her hands and regarding him with her head on one side; “if anything happened to him I should know if he was a hundred miles away.”
She sat down by Captain Barber, and laying her hand upon his, pressed it affectionately. The captain, a picture of misery, exchanged a significant glance with Nibletts, and emitted an involuntary groan.
“Don’t take on so,” said Mrs. Banks, compassionately. “Do you know, I’ve got a feeling that poor Fred has been saved!”
“That’s my feeling, too,” said Captain Barber, in a firm voice.
“It’s very likely,” said Captain Nibletts, slowly.
“What’s easier than for him to have been picked up by a passing vessel, and carried off goodness knows where?” enquired Mrs. Banks, with a glance evenly distributed between her daughter and the housekeeper.
Works of W. W. Jacobs Page 12
