MY FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE CHART.
"Good day," said Mr. George Goodfellow, nodding affably. "I hope I
see you well."
"Pretty well, thank you, sir," I answered.
"And where might you come from, makin' so bold?"
I told him that I was a boarder at Mr. Stimcoe's.
"Then," said Mr. Goodfellow, taking off his coat and extracting a
pencil and a two-foot rule from a pocket at the back of his
small-clothes, "I'm sorry for you. What a female!" He chose out a
long and flexible plank from a stack laid lengthwise in the alley-way
along the base of the wall, lifted it, set it on three trestles, and
began to measure and mark it off. "She's calculated to destroy one's
belief in human nature, that's what she is! Fairly knocks the gilt
off. Sometimes I can't hardly realize that she and Martha belong to
the same sex. Martha is my young woman."
"Yes, sir?"
"Yes. At present she's living in Plymouth, assistant in a
ham-and-beef shop, as you turn down to the Barbican. That's her
conscientiousness, instead of sitting at home and living on her
parents. Don't tell me that women--by which I mean some women--ain't
the equals of men.
"Because," continued Mr. Goodfellow, after a pause, "I know better.
Ever been to Plymouth?"
"Yes, sir."
"Live there?"
"No, sir."
He seemed to be disappointed.
"You go past the bottom of Treville Street, and there the shop is,
slap in front of you. You can't miss it, because it has a
plaster-of-Paris cow in the window, and the proprietor's called
Mudge. I go to Plymouth every week on purpose to see her."
"By coach, sir?" I asked, suddenly interested, and eager to compare
notes with him on the Royal Mail and its rivals, the Self-Defence and
Highflyer.
"Coach? Not a bit of it. Shank's mare, my boy, every step of the
way; and Martha's worth it. That's the best of bein' in love; it
makes you want to do things. By the way," he asked "you ain't
thinkin' to learn the violin, by any chance?"
"No, sir."
"No," he said reflectively. "You wouldn't--not at Stimcoe's.
Not, mind you, that I believe in coddling. Nobody ever coddled
Nelson, and yet what happened?" He shut one eye, put his pencil to
it for an imaginary telescope, and took a nautical survey of the back
premises.
"That rain-shute's out of order," he said, addressing Captain Coffin.
"Give me a shilling to put it right for you, and you'll save yourself
a lot of trouble."
"That's the landlord's affair," answered Captain Coffin, "and I'm not
paying you fippence an' hour to talk.
"But, sir," I put in, "if you walk to Plymouth you must pass the
house where I live--a low-roofed house about three miles this side of
St. Germans village, with a thatch on it, and windows opening right
on the road, and 'Minden Cottage' painted over the door."
"Know it? Bless my soul, to be sure I know it! Why, the last time
but one I passed that way, taking note that one of the window-hinges
was out of gear, I knocked and asked leave to repair it. A lady with
side-curls opened the door, and after the job was done took me into
the parlour an' gave me a jugful of cider over and above the sixpence
charged. I believe she'd have made it a shillin', too, only when I
told her she lived in a very pretty house, and asked if she owned it
or rented it, she turned very stiff in her manner. Touchy as tinder
she was; and if that comes of being a lady, I'm glad my Martha's more
sociable."
"That was Plinny--Miss Plinlimmon, I mean. You didn't catch sight of
my father--Major Brooks?"
"No, I didn't. But I stopped to pass the time o' day with the
landlord of the Seven Stars Inn, a mile along the road, and there I
heard about 'en. So you're Major Brooks's son? Well, then, by all
accounts you've got a thunderin' good father. Old English gentleman,
straight is a ramrod--pays his way, fears God and honours the King--
such was the landlord's words; and he told me the cottage, as you
call it, was rented at twenty-five pounds a year, with a walled
garden an' a paddock thrown in, which I call dirt cheap."
"I don't see that it's any business of yours what my father pays for
his house!" said I, my flush of pleasure changing to one of
annoyance.
I glanced round for Captain Coffin's support, but he had walked
indoors, no doubt in despair of Mr. Goodfellow's loquacity.
"No?" queried Mr. Goodfellow. "No, I dare say not; but you just wait
till you fall in love. It's a most curious feelin'. First of all it
makes you want to pull off your coat and turn a hand to anything,
from breakin' stones to playing the fiddle--it don't matter what, so
long as you sweat an' feel you're earnin' money. Why, just take a
look at my business card!" He stepped to his coat, pulled one from
his pocket, and glanced over it proudly: 'George Goodfellow,
Carpenter and Decorater--Cabinet Making in all its Branches--Repairs
neatly executed--Funerals and Shipping supplied--Practical Valuer,
and for Probate--Fire Office claims prepared and adjusted--Good
Berths booked on all the Packets, and guaranteed by personal
inspection--Boats built and designed--Instruction in the Violin--Old
instruments cleaned and repaired, or taken in exchange--Rowboat for
hire.' "There, put it in your pocket and take it away with you.
I've plenty more in my desk."
"That's what it feels like, bein' in love," continued Mr. Goodfellow.
"And, next thing, it makes you take a termenjus interest in houses--
houses an' furnicher an' the price o' things--right down to butter,
as you might say. I never see a house, now--leastways, a house that
takes my fancy--but I want to be measuring it an' planning out the
furnicher, an' the rent, an' where to stow the firewood, an' sitting
down cosy in it along with Martha--in the mind's eyes, as you may
say--one on each side o' the fire, an' making two ends meet. I pity
any man that ends a bachelor." He glanced towards the house.
"By the way, how do you get along with Coffin?"
"He--he seems very kind."
"Tis'n his way with boys as a rule." Mr. Goodfellow tapped his
forehand with the end of his two-foot rule. "Upper story," he
announced.
"You think so?"
"Sure of it. Cracked as a bell. Not," said Mr. Goodfellow, picking
up a saw and making ready to cut the plank lengthwise to his
measurements--"not that there's any harm in the man, until he gets
foul of the drink. The tale is he gets his money out o' Government--
a sort of pension. Was mixed up in the Spithead Mutiny, by one
account, an' turned informer; but there's another tale he earned it
by some hanky-panky over in Lisbon, when the Royal Family there
packed up traps from the Brazils; and that's the story I favour, for
(between you and me) I've seen Portugal money in his possession."
So, indeed, had I. But Captain Coffin himself cut short the talk at
this point by appearing and announcing from the back doorstep that he
had a treat for me if I would come inside.
The treat consisted in a dish of tea--a luxury in those times, rarely
afforded even at Minden Cottage--and a pot of guava-jelly, with
Cornish cream and a loaf of white, wheaten bread. Such bread, I need
scarcely say, with wheat at 140 shillings a quarter, or thereabouts,
never graced the table of Copenhagen Academy. But the dulcet,
peculiar taste of guava-jelly is what I associate in memory with that
delectable meal; and to this day I cannot taste the flavour of guava
but I find myself back in Captain Coffin's sitting-room, cutting a
third slice from the wheaten loaf, with the corals and shells of
mother-of-pearl winking at me from among the china on the dresser,
and Captain Coffin seated opposite, with the silver rings in his
ears, and his eyes very white in the dusk and distinct within their
inflamed rims.
"Nothing like tea," he was saying--"nothing like tea to pull a man
round from the drink and cock him back like a trigger."
His right hand was at his breast as he spoke. It came out swiftly,
as upon a sudden impulse. His left hand closed upon it and partly
covered it for a moment; then the two hands spread apart and
disclosed an oilskin case.
"Brooks!" he whispered hoarsely. "Brooks, look at this!"
His fingers plucked at the oilskin wrapper, uncovered it, unfolded an
inner parcel of parchment, and, trembling, spread it out on the
table.
I leaned closer, and I saw a chart of the Island of Mortallone in the
Bay of Honduras dated MDCCLXXVII. From the scale on the chart, the
island was some eight to ten miles long in the north-south direction,
and perhaps eight miles broad at the widest point. At the north end
of the island, around a promontory called Gable Point, there were
five small islands called The Keys. To the south was a wide inlet
with a ship seemingly in the act of sailing towards it.
The eastward edge of this inlet was labelled Cape Fea and just around
from this, in an easterly direction wa a small cove called Try-Again
Inlet. In the sea to the west of the island was drawn a mythical
sea-monster.
Twice, while I leaned across and stared at it, Captain Coffin's
fingers all but closed over the parchment to hide it from me.
The afternoon light was falling dim, and I stood up to walk around
the edge of the table for a better look. As I pushed back my chair
he clutched his treasure away, and hid it away again in the breast of
his jumper, at the same moment falling back and passing a hand over
his damp forehead.
"No, no, Brooks! You mustn't think--Only you took me sudden.
But my promise I've passed, and my promise I'll stand by.
Come to-morrow, lad."
Outside in the back yard I could hear Mr. Goodfellow, the slave of
love, sawing for dear life and Martha.