A Master Of Craft
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“All ready?” enquired Flower, as Miss Tyrell drew on her gloves.
They went downstairs in single file, the builder of the house having left no option in the matter, while the small Wheelers, breathing hard with excitement, watched them over the balusters. Outside the house the two ladies paired off, leaving the two men to follow behind.
The mate noticed, with a strong sense of his own unworthiness, that the two ladies seemed thoroughly engrossed in each other’s company, and oblivious to all else. A suggestion from Flower that he should close up and take off Miss Wheeler, seemed to him to border upon audacity, but he meekly followed Flower as that bold mariner ranged himself alongside the girls, and taking two steps on the curb and three in the gutter, walked along for some time trying to think of something to say.
“There ain’t room for four abreast,” said Flower, who had been scraping against the wall. “We’d better split up into twos.”
At the suggestion the ladies drifted apart, and Flower, taking Miss Tyrell’s arm, left the mate behind with Miss Wheeler, nervously wondering whether he ought to do the same.
“I hope it won’t rain,” he said, at last.
“I hope not,” said Miss Wheeler, glancing up at a sky which was absolutely cloudless.
“So bad for ladies’ dresses,” continued the mate.
“What is?” enquired Miss Wheeler, who had covered some distance since the last remark.
“Rain,” said the mate, quite freshly. “I don’t think we shall have any, though.”
Miss Wheeler whose life had been passed in a neighbourhood in which there was only one explanation for such conduct, concluded that he had been drinking, and, closing her lips tightly, said no more until they reached the theatre.
“Oh, they’re going in,” she said, quickly; “we shall get a bad seat.”
“Hurry up,” cried Flower, beckoning.
“I’ll pay,” whispered the mate.
“No, I will,” said Flower. “Well, you pay for one and I’ll pay for one, then.”
He pushed his way to the window and bought a couple of pit-stalls; the mate, who had not consulted him, bought upper-circles, and, with a glance at the ladies, pushed open the swing-doors.
“Come on,” he said, excitedly; and seeing several people racing up the broad stone stairs, he and Miss Tyrell raced with them.
“Round this side,” he cried, hastily, as he gave up the tickets, and, followed by Miss Tyrell, quickly secured a couple of seats at the end of the front row.
“Best seats in the house almost,” said Poppy, cheerfully.
“Where are the others?” said Fraser, looking round.
“Coming on behind, I suppose,” said Poppy glancing over her shoulder.
“I’ll change places when they arrive,” said the other, apologetically; “something’s detained them, I should think. I hope they’re not waiting for us.”
He stood looking about him uneasily as the seats behind rapidly filled, and closely scanned their occupants, and then, leaving his hat on the seat, walked back in perplexity to the door.
“Never mind,” said Miss Tyrell, quietly, as he came back. “I daresay they’ll find us.”
Fraser bought a programme and sat down, the brim of Miss Tyrell’s hat touching his face as she bent to peruse it. With her small gloved finger she pointed out the leading characters, and taking no notice of his restlessness, began to chat gaily about the plays she had seen, until a tuning of violins from the orchestra caused her to lean forward, her lips parted and her eyes beaming with anticipation.
“I do hope the others have got good seats,” she said, softly, as the overture finished; “that’s everything, isn’t it?”
“I hope so,” said Fraser.
He leaned forward, excitedly. Not because the curtain was rising, but because he had just caught sight of a figure standing up in the centre of the pit-stalls. He had just time to call his companion’s attention to it when the figure, in deference to the threats and entreaties of the people behind, sat down and was lost in the crowd.
“They have got good seats,” said Miss Tyrell. “I’m so glad. What a beautiful scene.”
The mate, stifling his misgivings, gave himself up to the enjoyment of the situation, which included answering the breathless whispers of his neighbour when she missed a sentence, and helping her to discover the identity of the characters from the programme as they appeared.
“I should like it all over again,” said Miss Tyrell, sitting back in her seat, as the curtain fell on the first act.
Fraser agreed with her. He was closely watching the pit-stalls. In the general movement on the part of the audience which followed the lowering of the curtain, the master of the Foam was the first on his feet.
“I’ll go down and send him up,” said Fraser, rising.
Miss Tyrell demurred, and revealed an unsuspected timidity of character. “I don’t like being left here all alone,” she remarked. “Wait till they see us.”
She spoke in the plural, for Miss Wheeler, who found the skipper exceedingly bad company, had also risen, and was scrutinising the house with a gaze hardly less eager than his own. A suggestion of the mate that he should wave his handkerchief was promptly negatived by Miss Tyrell, on the ground that it would not be the correct thing to do in the upper-circle, and they were still undiscovered when the curtain went up for the second act, and strong and willing hands from behind thrust the skipper back into his seat.
“I expect you’ll catch it,” said Miss Tyrell, softly, as the performance came to an end; “we’d better go down and wait for them outside. I never enjoyed a piece so much.”
The mate rose and mingled with the crowd, conscious of a little occasional clutch at his sleeve whenever other people threatened to come between them. Outside the crowd dispersed slowly, and it was some minutes before they discovered a small but compact knot of two waiting for them.
“Where the—” began Flower.
“I hope you enjoyed the performance, Captain Flower,” said Miss Tyrell, drawing herself up with some dignity. “I didn’t know that I was supposed to look out for myself all the evening. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Fraser I should have been all alone.”
She looked hard at Miss Wheeler as she spoke, and the couple from the pit-stalls reddened with indignation at being so misunderstood.
“I’m sure I didn’t want him,” said Miss Wheeler, hastily. “Two or three times I thought there would have been a fight with the people behind.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” said Miss Tyrell, composedly. “Well, it’s no good standing here. We’d better get home.”
She walked off with the mate, leaving the couple behind, who realised that appearances were against them, to follow at their leisure. Conversation was mostly on her side, the mate being too much occupied with his defence to make any very long or very coherent replies.
They reached Liston Street at last, and separated at the door, Miss Tyrell shaking hands with the skipper in a way which conveyed in the fullest possible manner her opinion of his behaviour that evening. A bright smile and a genial hand-shake were reserved for the mate.
“And now,” said the incensed skipper, breathing deeply as the door closed and they walked up Liston Street, “what the deuce do you mean by it?”
“Mean by what?” demanded the mate, who, after much thought, had decided to take a leaf out of Miss Tyrell’s book.
“Mean by leaving me in another part of the house with that Wheeler girl while you and my intended went off together?” growled Flower ferociously.
“Well, I could only think you wanted it,” said Fraser, in a firm voice.
“What?” demanded the other, hardly able to believe his ears
“I thought you wanted Miss Wheeler for number four,” said the mate, calmly. “You know what a chap you are, cap’n.”
His companion stopped and regarded him in speechless amaze, then realising a vocabulary to which Miss Wheeler had acted as a safety-valve all the evening, he turned up a side street and stamped his way back to the Foam alone.
CHAPTER V
THE same day that Flower and his friends visited the theatre, Captain Barber gave a small and select tea-party. The astonished Mrs. Banks had returned home with her daughter the day before to find the air full of rumours about Captain Barber and his new housekeeper. They had been watched for hours at a time from upper back windows of houses in the same row, and the professional opinion of the entire female element was that Mrs. Church could land her fish at any time she thought fit.
“Old fools are the worst of fools,” said Mrs. Banks, tersely, as she tied her bonnet strings; “the idea of Captain Barber thinking of marrying at his time of life.”
“Why shouldn’t he?” enquired her daughter.
“Why because he’s promised to leave his property to Fred and you, of course,” snapped the old lady; “if he marries that hussy it’s precious little you and Fred will get.”
“I expect it’s mostly talk,” said her daughter calmly, as she closed the street door behind her indignant parent. “People used to talk about you and old Mr. Wilders, and there was nothing in it. He only used to come for a glass of your ale.”
This reference to an admirer who had consumed several barrels of the liquor in question without losing his head, put the finishing touch to the elder lady’s wrath, and she walked the rest of the way in ominous silence.
Captain Barber received them in the elaborate velvet smoking-cap with the gold tassel which had evoked such strong encomiums from Mrs. Church, and in a few well-chosen words—carefully rehearsed that afternoon—presented his housekeeper.
“Will you come up to my room and take your things off?” enquired Mrs. Church, returning the old lady’s hostile stare with interest.
“I’ll take mine off down here, if Captain Barber doesn’t mind,” said the latter, subsiding into a chair with a gasp. “Him and me’s very old friends.”
She unfastened the strings of her bonnet, and, taking off that article of attire, placed it in her lap while she unfastened her shawl. She then held both out to Mrs. Church, briefly exhorting her to be careful.
“Oh, what a lovely bonnet,” said that lady, in false ecstasy. “What a perfect beauty! I’ve never seen anything like it before. Never!”
Captain Barber, smiling at the politeness of his housekeeper, was alarmed and perplexed at the generous colour which suddenly filled the old lady’s cheeks.
“Mrs. Banks made it herself,” he said, “she’s very clever at that sort of thing.”
“There, do you know I guessed as much,” said Mrs. Church, beaming; “directly I saw it, I said to myself: ‘That was never made by a milliner. There’s too much taste in the way the flowers are arranged.’”
Mrs. Banks looked at her daughter, in a mute appeal for help.
“I’ll take yours up, too, shall I?” said the amiable housekeeper, as Mrs. Banks, with an air of defying criticism, drew a cap from a paper-bag and put it on.
“I’ll take mine myself, please,” said Miss Banks, with coldness.
“Oh, well, you may as well take them all then,” said Mrs. Church, putting the mother’s bonnet and shawl in her arms. “I’ll go and see that the kettle boils,” she said, briskly.
She returned a minute or two later with the teapot, and setting chairs, took the head of the table.
“And how’s the leg?” enquired Captain Barber, misinterpreting Mrs. Banks’ screwed-up face.
“Which one?” asked Mrs. Banks, shortly.
“The bad ‘un,” said the captain.
“They’re both bad,” said Mrs. Banks more shortly than before, as she noticed that Mrs. Church had got real lace in her cuffs and was pouring out the tea in full consciousness of the fact.
“Dear, dear,” said the Captain sympathetically.
“Swollen?” enquired Mrs. Church, anxiously.
“Swelled right out of shape,” exclaimed Captain Barber, impressively; “like pillars almost they are.”
“Poor thing,” said Mrs. Church, in a voice which made Mrs. Banks itch to slap her. “I knew a lady once just the same, but she was a drinking woman.”
Again Mrs. Banks at a loss for words, looked at her daughter for assistance.
“Dear me, how dreadful it must be to know such people,” said Mrs. Banks, shivering.
“Yes,” sighed the other. “It used to make me feel sorry for her—they were utterly shapeless, you know. Horrid!”
“That’s how Mrs. Banks’ are,” said the Captain, nodding sagely. “You look ‘ot, Mrs. Banks. Shall I open the winder a bit?”
“I’ll thank you not to talk about me like that, Captain Barber,” said Mrs. Banks, the flowers on her hat trembling.
“As you please, ma’am,” said Captain Barber, with a stateliness which deserved a better subject. “I was only repeating what Dr. Hodder told me in your presence.”
Mrs. Banks made no reply, but created a diversion by passing her cup up for more tea; her feelings, when Mrs. Church took off the lid of the teapot and poured in about a pint of water before helping her, belonging to that kind known as in-describable.
“Water bewitched, and tea begrudged,” she said, trying to speak jocularly.
“Well, the fourth cup never is very good, is it,” said Mrs. Church, apologetically. “I’ll put some more tea in, so that your next cup’ll be better.”
As a matter of fact it was Mrs. Banks’ third cup, and she said so, Mrs. Church receiving the correction with a polite smile, more than tinged with incredulity.
“It’s wonderful what a lot of tea is drunk,” said Captain Barber, impressively, looking round the table.
“I’ve heard say it’s like spirit drinking,” said Mrs. Church; “they say it gets such a hold of people that they can’t give it up. They’re just slaves to it, and they like it brown and strong like brandy.”
Mrs. Banks, who had been making noble efforts, could contain herself no longer. She put down the harmless beverage which had just been handed to her, and pushed her chair back from the table.
“Are you speaking of me, young woman?” she asked, tremulous with indignation.
“Oh, no, certainly not,” said Mrs. Church, in great distress. “I never thought of such a thing. I was alluding to the people Captain Barber was talking of—regular tea-drinkers, you know.”
“I know what you mean, ma’am,” said Mrs. Banks fiercely.
“There, there,” said Captain Barber, ill-advisedly.
“Don’t you say ‘there, there,’ to me, Captain Barber, because I won’t have it,” said the old lady, speaking with great rapidity; “if you think that I’m going to sit here and be insulted by—by that woman, you’re mistaken.”
“You’re quite mistook, Mrs. Banks,” said the Captain, slowly. “I’ve heard everything she said, and, where the insult comes in, I’m sure I don’t know. I don’t think I’m wanting in common sense, ma’am.”
He patted the housekeeper’s hand kindly, and, in full view of the indignant Mrs. Banks, she squeezed his in return and gazed at him affectionately. There is nothing humourous to the ordinary person in a teacup, but Mrs. Banks, looking straight into hers, broke into a short, derisive laugh.
“Anything the matter, ma’am?” enquired Captain Barber, regarding her somewhat severely.
Mrs. Banks shook her head. “Only thoughts,” she said, mysteriously.
It is difficult for a man to object to his visitors finding amusement in their thoughts, or even to enquire too closely into the nature of them. Mrs. Banks, apparently realising this, laughed again with increased acridity, and finally became so very amused that she shook in her chair.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, ma’am,” said Captain Barber, loftily.
With a view, perhaps, of giving his guest further amusement he patted the housekeeper’s hand again, whereupon Mrs. Banks’ laughter ceased, and she sat regarding Mrs. Church with a petrified stare, met by that lady with a glance of haughty disdain.
“S’pose we go into the garden a bit?” suggested Barber, uneasily. The two ladies had eyed each other for three minutes without blinking, and his own eyes were watering in sympathy.
Mrs. Banks, secretly glad of the interruption, made one or two vague remarks about going home, but after much persuasion, allowed him to lead her into the garden, the solemn Elizabeth bringing up in the rear with a hassock and a couple of cushions.
“It’s a new thing for you having a housekeeper,” observed Mrs. Banks, after her daughter had returned to the house to assist in washing up.
“Yes, I wonder I never thought of it before,” said the artful Barber; “you wouldn’t believe how comfortable it is.”
“I daresay,” said Mrs. Banks, grimly.
“It’s nice to have a woman about the house,” continued Captain Barber, slowly, “it makes it more homelike. A slip of a servant-gal ain’t no good at all.”
“How does Fred like it?” enquired Mrs. Banks.
“My ideas are Fred’s ideas,” said Uncle Barber, somewhat sharply. “What I like he has to like, naturally.”
“I was thinking of my darter,” said Mrs. Banks, smoothing down her apron majestically. “The arrangement was, I think, that when they were, married they was to live with you?”
Captain Barber nodded acquiescence.
“Elizabeth would never live in a house with that woman, or any other woman, as housekeeper in it,” said the mother.
“Well, she won’t have to,” said the old man; “when they marry and Elizabeth comes here, I sha’n’t want a housekeeper—I shall get rid of her.”
Mrs. Banks shifted in her chair, and gazed thoughtfully down the garden. “Of course my idea was for them to wait till I was gone,” she said at length.
“Just so,” replied the other, “and more’s the pity.”
“But Elizabeth’s getting on and I don’t seem to go,” continued the old lady, as though mildly surprised at Providence for its unaccountable delay; “and there’s Fred, he ain’t getting younger.”
Captain Barber puffed at his pipe. “None of us are,” he said profoundly.
“And Fred might get tired of waiting,” said Mrs. Banks, ruminating.
“He’d better let me hear him,” said the uncle, fiercely; “leastways, o’ course, he’s tired o’ waiting in a sense. He’d like to be married.”
“There’s young Gibson,” said Mrs. Banks in a thrilling whisper.
“What about him?” enquired Barber, surprised at her manner.
“Comes round after Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Banks.
“No!” said Captain Barber, blankly.
Mrs. Banks pursed up her lips and nodded darkly.
“Pretends to come and see me,” said Mrs. Banks; “always coming in bringing something new for my legs. The worst of it is he ain’t always careful what he brings. He brought some new-fangled stuff in a bottle last week, and the agonies I suffered after rubbing it in wouldn’t be believed.”
“It’s like his impudence,” said the Captain.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Mrs. Banks, nodding her head with some animation, “of giving Fred a little surprise. What do you think he’d do if I said they might marry this autumn?”
“Jump out of his skin with joy,” said Captain Barber, with conviction. “Mrs. Banks, the pleasure you’ve given me this day is more than I can say.”
“And they’ll live with you just the same?” said Mrs. Banks.
“Certainly,” said the Captain.
“They’ll only be a few doors off then,” said Mrs. Banks, “and it’ll be nice for you to have a woman in the house to look after you.”
Captain. Barber nodded softly. “It’s what I’ve been wanting for years,” he said, heartily.
“And that huss—husskeeper,” said Mrs. Banks, correcting herself—“will go?”
“O’ course,” said Captain Barber. “I sha’n’t want no housekeeper with my nevy’s wife in the house. You’ve told Elizabeth, I s’pose?”
“Not yet,” said Mrs. Banks, who as a matter of fact had been influenced by the proceedings of that afternoon to bring to a head a step she had hitherto only vaguely contemplated.
Elizabeth, who came down the garden again, a little later, accompanied by Mrs. Church, received the news stolidly. A feeling of regret, that the attention of the devoted Gibson must now cease, certainly occurred to her, but she never thought of contesting the arrangements made for her, and accepted the situation with a placidity which the more ardent Barber was utterly unable to understand.
“Fred’ll stand on his.’ed with joy,” the unsophisticated mariner declared, with enthusiasm.
“He’ll go singing about the house,” declared Mrs. Church.
Mrs. Banks regarded her unfavourably.
“He’s never said much,” continued Uncle Barber, in an exalted strain; “that ain’t Fred’s way. He takes arter me; he’s one o’ the quiet ones, one o’ the still deep waters what always feels the most. When I tell ‘im his face’ll just light up with joy.”
“It’ll be nice for you, too,” said Mrs. Banks, with a side glance at the housekeeper; “you’ll have somebody to look after you and take an interest in you, and strangers can’t be expected to do that even if they’re nice.”
“We shall have him standing on his head, too,” said Mrs. Church, with a bright smile; “you’re turning everything upside down, Mrs. Banks.”
“There’s things as wants altering,” said the old lady, with emphasis. “There’s few things as I don’t see, ma’am.”
“I hope you’ll live to see a lot more,” said Mrs. Church, piously.
“She’ll live to be ninety,” said Captain Barber, heartily.
“Oh, easily,” said Mrs. Church.
Captain Barber regarding his old friend saw her face suffused with a wrath for which he was utterly unable to account. With a hazy idea that something had passed which he had not heard, he caused a diversion by sending Mrs. Church indoors for a pack of cards, and solemnly celebrated the occasion with a game of whist, at which Mrs. Church, in partnership with Mrs. Banks, either through sheer wilfulness or absence of mind, contrived to lose every game.
CHAPTER VI
As a result of the mate’s ill-behaviour at the theatre, Captain Fred Flower treated him with an air of chilly disdain, ignoring, as far as circumstances would permit, the fact that such a person existed. So far as the social side went the mate made no demur, but it was a different matter when the skipper acted as though he were not present at the breakfast table, and being chary of interfering with the other’s self-imposed vow of silence, he rescued a couple of rashers from his plate and put them on his own. Also, in order to put matters on a more equal footing, he drank three cups of coffee in rapid succession, leaving the skipper to his own reflections and an empty coffee-pot. In this sociable fashion they got through most of the day, the skipper refraining from speech until late in the afternoon, when, both being at work in the hold, the mate let a heavy case fall on his foot.
“I thought you’d get it,” he said, calmly, as Flower paused to take breath; “it wasn’t my fault.”
“Whose was it, then?” roared Flower, who had got his boot off and was trying various tender experiments with his toe to see whether it was broken or not.
“If you hadn’t been holding your head in the air and pretending that I wasn’t here, it wouldn’t have happened,” said Fraser, with some heat.
The skipper turned his back on him, and meeting a look of enquiring solicitude from Joe, applied to him for advice.
“What had I better do with it?” he asked.
“Well, if it was my toe, sir,” said Joe regarding it respectfully, “I should stick it in a basin o’ boiling water and keep it there as long as I could bear it.”
“You’re a fool,” said the skipper, briefly. “What do you think of it, Ben? I don’t think it’s broken.”
The old seaman scratched his head. “Well, if it belonged to me,” he said, slowly, “there’s some ointment down the fo’c’s’le which the cook ‘ad for sore eyes. I should just put some o’ that on. It looks good stuff.”
The skipper, summarising the chief points in Ben’s character, which, owing principally to the poverty of the English language, bore a remarkable likeness to Joe’s and the mate’s, took his sock and boot in his hand, and gaining the deck limped painfully to the cabin.
The foot was so painful after tea that he could hardly bear his slipper on, and he went ashore in his working clothes to the chemist’s, preparatory to fitting himself out for Liston Street. The chemist, leaning over the counter, was inclined to take a serious view of it, and shaking his head with much solemnity, prepared a bottle of medicine, a bottle of lotion and a box of ointment.
“Let me see it again as soon as you’ve finished the medicine,” he said, as he handed the articles over the counter.
Flower promised, and hobbling towards the door turned into the street. Then the amiable air which he had worn in the shop gave way to one of unseemly hauteur as he saw Fraser hurrying towards him.