That same evening Don Lavington did not walk home with his uncle, but
hung back to see Jem Wimble lock-up, and then sauntered slowly with him
toward the little low house by the entrance gates, where the yard-man,
as he was called, lived in charge.
Jem had been in the West India merchant's service from a boy, and no one
was more surprised than he when on the death of old Topley, Josiah
Christmas said to him one morning,--
"Wimble, you had better take poor old Topley's place."
"And--and take charge of the yard, sir?"
"Yes. I can trust you, can't I?"
"Oh, yes, sir; but--"
"Ah! Yes. You have no wife to put in the cottage."
Jem began to look foolish, and examine the lining of his hat.
"Well, sir, if it comes to that," he faltered; and there was a weak
comical aspect in his countenance which made Don burst out laughing.
"I know, uncle," he cried, "he has got a sweetheart."
"Well, Master Don," said the young man, colouring up; "and nothing to be
ashamed on neither."
"Certainly not," said the merchant quietly. "You had better get
married, Wimble, and you can have the cottage. I will buy and lend you
old Topley's furniture."
Wimble begged pardon afterwards, for on hearing all this astounding
news, he rushed out of the office, pulled off his leather apron, put on
his coat as he ran, and disappeared for an hour, at the end of which
time he returned, went mysteriously up to Don and whispered,--
"It's all right, sir; she says she will."
The result was that Jem Wimble looked twice as important, and cocked his
cocked hat on one side, for he had ten shillings a week more, and the
furnished cottage, kept the keys, kept the men's time, and married a
wife who bore a most extraordinary likeness to a pretty little bantam
hen.
This was three months before the scene just described, but though Jem
spoke in authoritative tones to the men, it was with bated breath to his
little wife, who was standing in the doorway looking as fierce as a
kitten, when Jem walked up in company with his young master.
"Which I will not find fault before Master Lindon, Jem," she said; "but
you know I do like you to be home punctual to tea."
"Yes, my dear, of course, of course," said Jem, apologetically. "Not
much past time, and had to shut up first."
"That's what you always say when you're late. You don't know, Master
Don, what a life he leads me."
"'Tain't true, Master Don," cried Jem. "She's always a-wherritting me."
"Now I appeal to Master Don: was it me, sir, as was late? There's the
tea ready, and the bread and butter cut, and the watercresses turning
limp, and the flies getting at the s'rimps. It arn't your fault, sir, I
know, and I'm not grumbling, but there never was such a place as this
for flies."
"It's the sugar, Sally," said Don, who had sauntered aimlessly in with
Jem, and as he stared round the neat little kitchen with the pleasant
meal all ready, he felt as if he should like to stay to tea instead of
going home.
"Yes, it's the sugar, sir, I know; and you'd think it would sweeten some
people's temper, but it don't."
"Which if it's me you mean, and you're thinking of this morning--"
"Which I am, Jem, and you ought to be ashamed. You grumbled over your
breakfast, and you reg'larly worried your dinner, and all on account of
a button."
"Well, then, you should sew one on. When a man's married he does expect
to find buttons on his clean shirts."
"Yes, and badly enough you want 'em, making 'em that sticky as you do."
"I can't help that; it's only sugar."
"Only sugar indeed! And if it was my last words I'd say it--there _was_
a button on the neck."
"Well, I know that," cried Jem; "and what's the good of a button being
on, if it comes off directly you touch it? Is it any good, Mas' Don?"
"Oh, don't ask me," cried the lad, half-amused, half annoyed, and
wishing they'd ask him to tea.
"He dragged it off, Master Don."
"I didn't."
"You did, Jem, and you know you did, just to aggravate me."
"Wasn't half sewn on."
"It was. I can't sew your buttons on with copper wire."
"You two are just like a girl and boy," cried Don. "Here you have
everything comfortable about you, and a good place, and you're always
quarrelling."
"Well, it's his fault, sir."
"No, sir, it's her'n."
"It's both your faults, and you ought to be ashamed of yourselves."
"I'm not," said Sally; "and I wish I'd never seen him."
"And I'm sure I wish the same," said Jem despondently. "I never see
such a temper."
"There, Master Don," cried the droll-looking little Dutch doll of a
woman. "That's how he is always going on."
"There, Jem, now you've made your poor little wife cry. You are the
most discontented fellow I ever saw."
"Come, I like that, Master Don; you've a deal to brag about, you have.
Why, you're all at sixes and sevens at home."
This was such a home thrust that Don turned angrily and walked out of
the place.
"There!" cried Sally. "I always knew how it would be. Master Don was
the best friend we had, and now you've offended him, and driven him
away."
"Shouldn't ha' said nasty things then," grumbled Jem, sitting down and
attacking his tea.
"Now he'll go straight to his uncle and tell him what a man you are."
"Let him," said Jem, with his mouth full of bread and butter.
"And of course you'll lose your place, and we shall be turned out into
the street to starve."
"Will you be quiet, Sally? How's a man to eat his tea with you going on
like that?"
"Turned out into the world without a chance of getting another place.
Oh! It's too bad. Why did I ever marry such a man as you?"
"'Cause you were glad of the chance," grumbled Jem, raising his hand to
pour out some tea, but it was pushed aside indignantly, and the little
woman busily, but with a great show of indignation, filled and sweetened
her husband's cup, which she dabbed down before him, talking all the
while, and finishing with,--
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Jem."
"I am," he grumbled. "Ashamed that I was ever such a stupid as to marry
a girl who's always dissatisfied. Nice home you make me."
"And a nice home you make me, sir; and don't eat your victuals so fast.
It's like being at the wild beast show."
"That's right; go on," grumbled Jem, doubling his rate of consumption.
"Grudge me my meals now. Good job if we could undo it all, and be as we
was."
"I wish we could," cried the little woman, whose eyes seemed to say that
her lips were not telling the truth.
"So do I," cried Jem, tossing off his third cup of tea; and then to his
little wife's astonishment he took a thick slice of bread and butter in
each hand, clapped them together as if they were cymbals, rose from the
table and put on his hat.
"Where are you going, Jem?"
"Out."
"What for?"
"To eat my bread and butter down on the quay."
"But why, Jem?"
"'Cause there's peace and quietness there."
_Bang_! Went the door, and little Mrs Wimble stood gazing at it
angrily for a few moments before sitting down and having what she called
"a good cry," after which she rose, wiped her eyes, and put away the tea
things without partaking of any herself.
"Poor Jem!" she said softly; "I'm afraid I'm very unkind to him
sometimes."
Just at that moment Jem was sitting on an empty cask, eating his bread
and butter, and watching a boat manned by blue-jackets going off to the
sloop of war lying out toward the channel, and flying her colours in the
evening breeze.
"Poor little Sally!" he said to himself. "We don't seem to get on
somehow, and I'm afraid I'm a bit rough to her; but knives and scissors!
What a temper she have got."
Meanwhile, in anything but a pleasant frame of mind, Don had gone home
to find that the tea was ready, and that he was being treated as a
laggard.
"Come, Lindon," said his uncle quietly, "you have kept us waiting some
time."
The lad glanced quickly round the well-furnished room, bright with
curiosities brought in many a voyage from the west, and with the poison
of Mike's words still at work, he wondered how much of what he saw
rightfully belonged to him.
The next moment his eyes lit on the soft sweet troubled face of his
mother, full of appeal and reproach, and it seemed to Don that his uncle
had been upsetting her by an account of his delinquencies.
"It's top bad, and I don't deserve it," he said to himself. "Everything
seems to go wrong now. Well, what are you looking at?" he added, to
himself, as he took his seat and stared across at his cousin, the
playmate of many years, whose quiet little womanly face seemed to repeat
her father's grave, reproachful look, but who, as it were, snatched her
eyes away as soon as she met his gaze.
"They all hate me," thought Don, who was in that unhappy stage of a
boy's life when help is so much needed to keep him from turning down one
of the dark side lanes of the great main route.
"Been for a walk, Don?" said his mother with a tender look.
"No, mother, I only stopped back in the yard a little while."
His uncle set down his cup sharply.
"You have not been keeping that scoundrel Bannock?" he cried.
"No, sir; I've been talking to Jem."
"Ho!" ejaculated the old merchant. "That's better. But you might have
come straight home."
Don's eyes encountered his Cousin Kitty's just then, as she gave her
head a shake to throw back the brown curls which clustered about her
white forehead.
She turned her gaze upon her plate, and he could see that she was
frowning.
"Yes," thought Don, "they all dislike me, and I'm only a worry and
trouble to my mother. I wish I was far away--anywhere."
He went on with his tea moodily and in silence, paying no heed to the
reproachful glances of his mother's eyes, which seemed to him to say,
and with some reason, "Don't be sulky, Don, my boy; try and behave as I
could wish."
"It's of no use to try," he said to himself; and the meal passed off
very silently, and with a cold chill on every one present.
"I'm very sorry, Laura," said her brother, as soon as Don had left the
room; "and I don't know what to do for the best. I hate finding fault
and scolding, but if the boy is in the wrong I must chide."
"Try and be patient with him, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington pleadingly.
"He is very young yet."
"Patient? I'm afraid I have been too patient. That scoundrel at the
yard has unsettled him with his wild tales of the sea; and if I allowed
it, Don would make him quite a companion."
"But, Josiah--"
"There, don't look like that, my dear. I promised you I would play a
father's part to the boy, and I will; but you must not expect me to be a
weak indulgent father, and spoil him with foolish lenity. There, enough
for one day. I daresay we shall get all right in time."
"Oh, yes," cried Mrs Lavington, earnestly. "He's a true-hearted, brave
boy; don't try to crush him down."
"Crush him, nonsense!" cried the merchant, angrily. "You really are too
bad, Laura, and--"
He stopped, for just then Don re-entered the room to flush up angrily as
he saw his mother in tears; and he had heard enough of his uncle's
remark and its angry tone to make him writhe.
"Ill using her now," he said to himself, as he set his teeth and walked
to the window.
The closing of the door made him start round quickly, to find that his
mother was close behind him, and his uncle gone. "What has Uncle Jos
been saying to you, mother?" he cried angrily.
"Nothing--nothing particular, my boy," she faltered. "He has," cried
Don fiercely; "and I won't have it. He may scold and abuse me as much
as he likes, but I will not have him ill use you."
"Ill use me, Don?" cried Mrs Lavington. "Nonsense, my dear boy. Your
uncle is all that is kind and good; and he loves you very dearly, Don,
if you could only try--try a little more, my dear boy, to do what he
likes, and please him."
"I do try, mother, but it's no good."
"Don't say that, Don. Try a little harder--for my sake, dear, as well
as your own."
"I have tried, I am always trying, and it's of no use. Nothing pleases
uncle, and the men in the yard know it."
"Don, my boy, what foolish obstinate fit is this which has come over
you?" said Mrs Lavington tenderly.
"I'm not obstinate," he said sullenly; "only unhappy."
"Is it not your own fault, my darling?" she whispered; "believe me, your
uncle is one of the kindest and best of men."
Don shook his head.
"Are you going to prefer the opinion of the men of the yard to mine,
dear?"
"No, mother, but uncle is your brother, and you believe in him and
defend him. You know how harsh and unkind he is to me."
"Not unkind, Don, only firm and for your good. Now come, my boy, do,
for my sake, try to drive away these clouds, and let us all be happy
once more."
"It's of no use to try, mother; I shall never be happy here, tied down
to a desk. It's like being uncle's slave."
"What am I to say to you, Don, if you talk like this?" said Mrs
Lavington. "Believe me you are wrong, and some day you will own it.
You will see what a mistaken view you have taken of your uncle's
treatment. There, I shall say no more now."
"You always treat me as if I were a child," said Don, bitterly. "I'm
seventeen now, mother, and I ought to know something."
"Yes, my boy," said Mrs Lavington gently; "at seventeen we think we
know a good deal; and at forty we smile as we look back and see what a
very little that `good deal' was."
Don shook his head.
"There, we will have no more sad looks. Uncle is eager to do all he can
to make us happy."
"I wish I could think so," cried Don, bitterly.
"You may, my dear. And now, come, try and throw aside all those
fanciful notions about going abroad and meeting with adventures. There
is no place like home, Don, and you will find out some day that is
true."
"But I have no home till I make one," said the lad gloomily.
"You have an excellent home here, Don, the gift of one who has kindly
taken the place toward you of your father. There, I will listen to no
more from you, for this is all foolish fighting of your worse against
your better self."
There was a quiet dignity in his mother's words which awed Don for the
moment, but the gentle embrace given the next minute seemed to undo that
which the firmness had achieved, and that night the cloud over the lad's
life seemed darker than ever.
"She takes uncle's side and thinks he is everything," he said gloomily,
as he went to bed. "She means right, but she is wrong. Oh, how I wish
I could go right away somewhere and begin life all over again."
Then he lay down to sleep, but slumber did not come, so he went on
thinking of many things, to fall into a state of unconsciousness at
last, from which he awoke to the fact that it was day--a very eventful
day for him, but he did not awaken to the fact that he was very blind.