A COLD DOUCHE ON A HOT FIT.
There lived at Plymouth, in a neat house at the back of the Hoe, and
not far from the Citadel, a certain Mr. Basket, a retired haberdasher
of Cheapside, upon whom the Major could count for a hospitable
welcome. The two had been friends--cronies almost--in their London
days; dining together daily at the same cook-shop, and as regularly
sharing after dinner a bottle of port to the health of King George
and Mr. Pitt. Nor, since their almost simultaneous retreat from the
capital, had they allowed distance to diminish their mutual regard.
They frequently corresponded, and their letters included many a
playful challenge to test one another's West Country hospitality.
Now while the Major had (to put it mildly) but exchanged one sphere
of activity for another, Mr. Basket, a married man, embraced the
repose of a contemplative life; cultivating a small garden and taking
his wife twice a week to the theatre, of which he was a devotee.
These punctual jaunts, very sensibly practised as a purge against
dullness, together with the stir and hubbub of a garrison town in
which his walled garden stood isolated, as it were, all day long,
amid marchings, countermarchings, bugle-calls, and the rumble of
wagons filled with material of war, gave him a sense of being in the
swim--of close participation in the world's affairs; failing which a
great many folk seem to miss half the enjoyment of doing nothing in
particular.
Mr. Basket welcomed the Major cordially, with a dozen rallying
comments on his healthy rural complexion, and carried him off to
admire the garden while Mrs. Basket enlarged her preparations for
dinner at five o'clock.
The garden was indeed calculated to excite admiration, less for its
flowers--for Mr. Basket confessed ruefully that very few flowers
would grow with him--than for a hundred ingenuities by which this
defect was concealed.
"And the beauty of it is," announced Mr. Basket, with a wave of his
hand towards a black-and-white edging compound of marrow bones and
the inverted bases of wine bottles, disposed alternately, "it
harbours no slugs. It saves labour, too; you would be surprised at
the sum it used to cost me weekly in labour alone. But," he went
on, "I pin my faith to oyster shells. They are, if in a nautical
town one may be permitted to speak breezily, my sheet anchor."
He indicated a grotto at the end of the walk. "Maria and me did the
whole of that."
"Mrs. Basket is fond of gardening?" hazarded the Major.
"She's extraordinary partial to oysters," Mr. Basket corrected him.
"We made it a principle from the first to use nothing but what we
consumed in the house. That don't apply to the statuary, of course,
which I have purchased at one time and another from an Italian dealer
who frequents the Hoe. The material is less durable than one might
wish; but I could not afford marble. The originals of these objects,
so the dealer informs me, are sold for very considerable sums of
money; in addition to which," went on Mr. Basket, lucidly, "he
carries them in a tray on his head, which, in the case of marble,
would be out of the question; and, as it is, how he contrives to keep
'em balanced passes my understanding. But he is an intelligent
fellow, and becomes very communicative as soon as he finds out you
have leanings for Art. Here's a group, for instance--Cupid and
Fisky--in the nude."
"But, excuse me--" The Major stepped back and rubbed his chin
dubiously, for some careful hand had adorned the lovers with kilts of
pink wool in crochet work, and Psyche, in addition, wore a neat pink
turnover.
"The artist _designed_ 'em in the nude, but Maria worked the
petticoats, having very decided views, for which I don't blame her.
It keeps off the birds, too: not that the birds could do the same
damage here as in an ordinary garden."
"I can well believe that."
"But we were talking of oyster shells. They are, as I say, our
stand-by. To be sure, you can't procure 'em all the year round, like
marrow bones for instance; but, as I tell Maria, from a gardening
point of view that's almost a convenience. You can work at your beds
whenever there's an 'r' in the month, and then, during the summer,
take a spell, look about, and enjoy the results. Besides, it leaves
you free to plan out new improvements. Now, here"--Mr. Basket caught
his friend's arm, and leading him past a bust of Socrates ("an
Athenian," he explained in passing; "considered one of the wisest men
of antiquity, though not good-looking in _our_ sense of the word "),
paused on the brink of a small basin, cunningly sunk in centre of a
round, pebble-paved area guarded by statuary--"I consider this my
masterpiece."
"A fish-pond!"
"Yes, and containing real fish; goldfish, you perceive. I keep it
supplied from a rain-water cistern at the top of the house, and feed
'em on bread-crumbs. Never tell _me_," said Mr. Basket, "that
animals don't reason!"
"You certainly have made yourself a charming retreat," the Major
admitted, gazing about him.
Mr. Basket beamed. "You remember the lines I was wont to declaim to
you, my friend, over our bottle in Cheapside?--
"'May I govern my passion with an absolute sway,
And grow wiser and better as my strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. . . .'"
"For the last, it must be as Heaven pleases; but to some extent, you
see, I have come to enjoy my modest aspirations. Only until to-day
one thing was lacking. As poor Bannister used to quote it in the
play--you remember him?--
"'I've often wished that I had clear
For life six hundred pounds a year
A something-or-other house to lodge a friend. . . .'
"Ay, my dear Hymen," Mr. Basket wrung the Major's hand with genuine
feeling, "you have been a long time putting off this visit; but, now
we have you, I promise we don't let you go in a hurry. We will toast
old days; we will go visit the play together as of old--yes, this
very night. For, as luck will have it, the stock company at the
Theatre Royal makes way to-night--for whom think you? No less a man
than Orlando B. Sturge, and in his great part of Tom Taffrail in
_Love Between Decks; or, The Triumph of Constancy_; a week's special
engagement with his own London company in honour of the Duke of
Clarence, who is paying us a visit just now at Admiralty House."
"Sturge?" echoed the Major, doubtfully.
"Good heavens, my dear fellow, don't tell me you haven't heard of
him! Really, now, really, you bury yourself--believe me, you do.
Why, for nautical parts, the stage hasn't his equal; and a voice,
they tell me, like Incledon's in his prime! Mrs. Basket and I have
reserved seats, and, now I come to think of it, we had best step down
to the theatre before dining, book yours, and arrange it so that we
sit in a row. The house will be crowded, if 'tis only for a view of
his Royal Highness, who will certainly attend if--hem!--equal to the
effort."
"I had not heard of his being indisposed."
"Nor is he, at this hour. But now and then . . . after his fourth
bottle . . . However, as I say, the house will certainly be crowded."
"You'll excuse me, my friend, if I beg that you and your good wife
will trot off to the theatre to-night without troubling about me.
The--er--fact is, I have come up to Plymouth primarily to consult a
lawyer on a somewhat delicate business, and shall be glad of a few
hours' solitude this evening to prepare my case. Do you happen, by
the way, to know of a good lawyer? I wish for the very best advice
procurable."
"Eh--eh? Delicate business, you say? My dear fellow, no
entanglement, I hope? You always _were_, you know. . . . But I've
said it a thousand times--you ought to get married; and Maria agrees
with me . . . a man of your presence, carrying his years as you do.
Eh? You're blushing, man. Then maybe 'tis the real thing, and
you've come up to talk over settlements?"
"Tut-tut!" interposed the Major, who indeed had coloured up, and
apparently not with annoyance. "There's no woman at all in the case
I'm referring to." But here he checked himself. "Nay, I forgot; I'm
wrong there," he admitted; "and if she hadn't had twins, I don't
believe 'twould have happened."
"Curious circumstance to forget," murmured Mr. Basket; but,
perceiving that the Major was indisposed to be communicative, pressed
him no further.
At dinner Mrs. Basket, whose welcome had at first been qualified by
the prospect of having to give to the unexpected guest her seat at
_Love Between Decks_ (on which, good soul, she had set her heart),
showed herself in her most amiable light. She was full of apologies
for deserting him. "If he had only given them warning. Not but that
she was delighted; and even now, if the Major would make use of her
ticket . . . And to leave him alone in the house--for the 'maid'
lived two streets away, and slept at home--it sounded so
inhospitable, did it not? But she hoped the Major would find his
room comfortable; there was a table for writing; and supper would be
laid in the parlour, if he should feel tired after his journey and
wish to retire to bed before their return. Would he be good enough
to forbear standing upon ceremony, and remember the case-bottles in
the cellaret on the right-hand of the sideboard? Also, by the way,
he must take temporary possession of the duplicate latchkey; and
then," added Mrs. Basket, "we shall feel you are quite one of _us_."
The Major, on his part, could only trust that his unexpected visit
would not be allowed to mar for one moment Mrs. Basket's enjoyment of
_Love Between Decks_. On that condition only could he feel that he
had not unwarrantably intruded; on those terms only that he was being
treated in sincerity as an old friend. "I am an old campaigner,
madam. Permit me, using an old friend's liberty, to congratulate you
on the flavour of this boiled mutton."
In short, the Major showed himself the most complaisant of guests.
At dessert, observing that Mr. Basket's eye began to wander towards
the clock on the mantelpiece, he leapt up, protesting that he should
never forgive himself if, through him, his friends missed a single
line of _Love Between Decks_.
Mr. Basket rose to his feet, with a half-regretful glance at the
undepleted decanter.
"To-morrow night," said he, "we will treat old friendship more
piously. Believe me, Hymen, if it weren't for the seats being
reserved--"
"My dear fellow," the Major assured him, with a challenging smile for
Mrs. Basket, "if you don't come back and tell me you've forgotten for
three hours my very existence, I shall pack my valise and tramp off
to an inn."
Having dismissed the worthy couple to the theatre--but a couple of
streets distant--the Major retired with glass and decanter to his
room, drank his quantum, smoked two pipes of tobacco very leisurably,
and then, with a long sigh, drew up his chair to the table (which
Mrs. Basket had set out with writing materials) and penned, with many
pauses for consideration, the following letter; which, when the
reader has perused it, will sufficiently explain why our hero had
blushed a while ago under Mr. Basket's interrogatory.
"My dear Martha,--'Sweet,' says our premier poet, 'are the uses
of adversity.' The indignity (I will call it no less) to which
my fellow-townsmen by their folly, and Sir Felix by his perfidy,
have recently subjected me, is not without its compensations.
On the one hand it has disillusioned me; on the other it has
removed the scales from my eyes. It has, indeed, inspired me
with a disgust of public life; it has taught me to think more
meanly of mankind as a whole. But while weaning my ambitions--
perhaps too abruptly--from a wider sphere, it has directed me
upon a happiness which has--dare I say it?--awaited me all the
while beside the hearth.
"Let me avow, dear cousin, that when first this happy inspiration
seized me, I had much ado--you know my promptitude of old--to
refrain from seeking you at once and pressing my suit with that
ardour which the warmth of my purpose dictated. On second
thoughts, however, I decided to spare your emotions that sudden
assault, and to make my demand in writing--in military phrase,
to summon the garrison in form.
"Your tender consideration of my comfort over a period of years
induces me to believe that a stronger claim on that
consideration for the future may not be a matter of indifference
to you. In short, I have the honour to offer you my hand, with
every assurance of a lifelong fidelity and esteem. The station
I ask you to adorn will be a private one. I am here to consult
a lawyer how best I may release from the consequences of their
folly the unfortunate men who betrayed me. This done, I lay
down my chain of office and resign my commission. I will not
deny that there are wounds; I look to domestic felicity to
provide a balm for them. Hansombody, no doubt, will succeed me;
and on the whole I am satisfied that he will passably fill an
office which, between ourselves, he has for some time expected.
I hope to return the day after to-morrow, and to receive the
blushing answer on which I have set my heart.--Believe me, dear
Coz, your affectionate
"Sol. Hymen."
Cynics tell us that one-half of the proposals of marriage made by men
are the direct result of pique. How closely this proposal of the
Major's coincided with the recoil of his public humiliation I do not
pretend to determine. Certain it is that he had no sooner written
and sealed his letter than the shadow of a doubt began to creep over
his hot fit.
He started up, lit his long pipe, and fell to pacing the room with
agitated strides. Was he doing wisely? Matrimony, he had sometimes
told his friends, is like a dip in the sea; the wise man takes it at
a plunge, head first. Yes, yes; but had he given it quite sufficient
reflection? Could he promise himself he would never regret? He was
not doubting that Miss Marty would make him an excellent wife.
Admirable creature, she bore every test he could apply. She was
gentle, companionable, intelligent in converse, yet never forward in
giving an opinion; too studious, rather, to efface herself; in
household management economical without being penurious; a notable
cook and needlewoman; in person by no means uncomely, and in mind as
well as person so scrupulously neat that her unobtrusive presence,
her noiseless circumspect flittings from room to room, exhaled an
atmosphere of daintiness in which it was good to dwell. No, he had
no anxiety about Miss Marty. But could he be sure of himself?
Had he really and truly and for ever put the ambitions of public life
behind him? Might they not some day re-awaken as this present wound
healed and ceased to smart?
If he sent this letter, he had burnt his boats. He halted before the
table and stood for a while considering; stood there so long that his
pipe went out unheeded. Ought he not to re-write his proposal and
word it so as to leave himself a loophole? As he conned the name on
the address, by some trick of memory he found himself repeating Miss
Marty's own protest against the Millennium: "Why couldn't we be let
alone, to go on comfortably?"
Confound the Millennium! Was it at the bottom of this too?
The plaguy thing had a knack of intruding itself, just now, into all
he undertook, and always mischievously. It was unsettling--Miss
Marty's word again--infernally unsettling. He had begun to lose
confidence in himself.
The room was hot. He stepped to the window, flung it open, and drank
in the cool air of the summer night. Below him lay the garden,
wherein Mr. Basket's statuary showed here and there a glimmer in the
velvet darkness. The Major turned back to the room and began to
undress slowly; removing his wig, his coat, his waistcoat, and laying
them on a chair. Next he turned out his breeches pockets and tossed
his purse, with a handful of loose silver, upon the bed. With it
there jingled the spare latchkey with which Mrs. Basket had entrusted
him.
He picked it up. . . . Yes, why should he not take a turn in the
garden to compose his mind? In his present agitation he was not
likely to woo slumber with success. . . . He slipped on his coat
again and descended the stairs, latchkey in hand. A lamp burned in
the hall, and by the light of it he read the hour on the dial of a
grandfather's clock that stood sentry beside the dining-room door--
five-and-twenty minutes past ten. The Baskets would not be returning
for another hour at least. He unlatched the front door, stepped out,
and closed it softly behind him.
Now mark how simply--how, with a short laugh--by the crook of a
little finger, as it were--the envious gods topple down the tallest
human pride.
The Major descended the front steps, halted for a moment to peer at a
statuette of Hercules resting on his club, and passed on down the
central path of the garden with a smile for his worthy friend's
foible. A dozen paces, and his toe encountered the rim of Mr.
Basket's fish-pond. . . .
The Major went into Mr. Basket's fish-pond souse!--on all fours,
precipitately, with hands wildly clawing the water amid the
astonished goldfish.
The echo of the splash had hardly lost itself in the dark
garden-alleys before he scrambled up, coughing and sputtering, and
struggling to shore rubbed the water from his eyes. Now the basin
had not been cleaned out for some months, and beneath the water,
which did not exceed a foot and a half in depth, there lay a good two
inches of slime and weed, some portion of which his knuckles were
effectively transferring to his face. He had lost a shoe.
Worse than this, as he stood up, shook the water out of his breeches
and turned to escape back to the house, it dawned on him that he had
lost the latchkey!
He had been carrying it in his hand at the moment of the catastrophe.
. . . He sat down on the pebbled path beside the basin, flung
himself upon his stomach and, leaning over the brink as far as he
dared, began to grope in the mud. After some minutes he recovered
his shoe, but by and by was forced to abandon the search for the key
as hopeless. He had no lantern. . . .
He cast an appealing glance up at the light in his bedroom window.
His gaze travelled down to the fanlight over the front door. And
with that the dreadful truth broke on him. Without the latchkey he
could not possibly re-enter the house.
He unlaced and drew on his sodden shoe, and sat for a while
considering. Should he wait here in this dreadful plight until his
hosts returned? Or might he not run down to the theatre (which lay
but two short streets away), explain the accident to a doorkeeper,
and get a message conveyed to Mr. Basket? Yes, this was clearly the
wiser course. The streets--thank Heaven!--were dark.
He crept to the front gate and peered forth. The roadway was
deserted. Taking his courage in both hands, he stepped out upon the
pavement and walked briskly downhill to the theatre. The distance
was a matter of five or six hundred yards only, and he met nobody.
Coming in sight of the brightly-lit portico, he made a dash for it
and up the steps, where he blundered full tilt into the arms of a
tall doorkeeper at the gallery entrance.
"Hallo!" exclaimed the man, falling back. "Get out of this!"
"One moment, my friend--"
"Damme!" The doorkeeper, blocking the entrance, surveyed him and
whistled. "Hi, Charley!" he called; "come and take a look at this!"
A scrag-necked youth thrust his face forward from the aperture of the
ticket-office.
"Well, I'm jiggered," was his comment. "Drunk, eh? Throw him out!"
"If you'll listen for a moment," pleaded the Major, with dignity, and
began to search in the pockets of his sodden breeches. "I wish a
message taken . . . but dear me, now I remember, I left my money
upstairs!"
"_On_ the gilded dressing-table beside the diamond tiyara," suggested
the doorkeeper. "Or maybe you cast it down, careless, on the moonlit
shore afore taking your dip!"
"My good man, I assure you that I am the victim of an accident.
It so happens that, by a singular chain of mischance, I have not at
this moment a penny about me. But if you will go to the reserved row
of the pit and fetch out my friend Mr. Basket--"
At this point the Major felt a hand clapped on his shoulder, and
turning, was aware of two sailors, belted and wearing cutlasses, who,
having lurched up the steps arm-in-arm, stood to gaze, surveying him
with a frank interest.
"What's wrong, eh?" demanded the one who had saluted him, and turned
to his comrade, a sallow-faced man with a Newgate fringe of a beard.
"Good Lord, Bill, what is it like?"
"It _looks_ like a wreck ashore," answered the sallow-faced sailor
after a slow inspection.
"Talk about bein' fond of the theayter! He must have _swum_ for it,"
said the other, and stared at the Major round-eyed. "You'll excuse
me; Ben Jope, my name is, bos'n of the _Vesuvius_ bomb; and this
here's my friend Bill Adams, bos'n's mate. _As_ I was sayin', you'll
excuse me, but you must be fond of it--a man of your age--by the
little you make of appearances."
"I was just explaining," stammered the Major, "that although, most
unfortunately, I have left my purse at home--"
But here he paused as Mr. Jope looked at Mr. Adams, and Mr. Adams
answered with a slow and thoughtful wink.
"Go where you will," said Mr. Jope cheerfully, stepping to the
ticket-office; "go where you will, and sail the high seas over, 'tis
wonderful how you run across that excuse. Three tickets for the
gallery, please; and you, Bill, fall alongside!" He linked an arm in
the Major's, who feebly resisted.
"Lord love ye!" said Mr. Jope, "the lie's an old one; but a man that
played up to it better in appearances I never see'd nor smelt!"