The Blue Posts, Chelsea, is an old-time public-house pleasantly situated by the
river, with an extensive connection amongst gentlemen’s servants, ’busmen, and
other skilled judges of good beer, the subtle and delicate perfume of which
liquor pervades the place from cellar to garret, and has more than once taken
the policeman on duty to the back door, under the impression that something
wanted looking into.
To some men imprisonment in such a place would have been little short of
ecstasy. In the heat of summer they would have sat in the cool cellar amid
barrels of honest beer; in winter, they would have led the conversation cosily
seated around the taproom fire. For exercise, profitable employment at the
beer-engine in the bar; for intellectual exercise, the study of practical
chemistry in the cellar.
To Captain Fred Flower none of these things appealed. He had visited the cellar
certainly—in search of subterranean exits; he had sat in the tap-room—close to
the open window; but his rabid desire to get away from the place and never see
it again could not have been surpassed by the most bitter teetotaler that ever
breathed.
His greatest trouble was with Porson, whose limpet-like qualities were a source
of never-failing concern to the unfortunate mariner. Did he ascend to the
drawing-room and gaze yearningly from the windows at the broad stream of Father
Thames and the craft dropping down on the ebb-tide to the sea, Uncle Porson,
sallow of face and unclean of collar, was there to talk beery romance of the
ocean. Did he retire to the small yard at the rear of the premises and gaze
from the back door at the passing life of a Chelsea by-street, Uncle Porson was
looking over his shoulder, pointing out milkmen with histories, and cabmen with
a past.
The second week of his stay was drawing to a close before he fully realised
the horror of his position. His foot, which had been giving him considerable
trouble, was getting much better, though it was by no means well enough to
give him a chance in a foot-race with Mr. Porson or Charles, and as the family
at the Blue Posts realised the improvement, the attentions of his personal
attendants were redoubled. The key of his bed-room door was turned every
night after he had retired, a discovery he had made the first night after
carefully dressing for flight and spending an hour over the composition of a
farewell note to Miss Tipping. There was no chance of reaching the roof from
his bed-room window, and the pavement below offered him his choice between a
wedding and a funeral.
And amid all this the fiction was maintained of preserving him from his lawless
foes and his own inconvenient devotion to duty. A struggle for escape was not
to be thought of, as the full measure of his deceitfulness would transpire in
the event of failure, and the wedding drew nearer day by day, while his active
brain was still casting about in vain for any means of escape.
“Next Tuesday,” said Mrs. Tipping to her stepdaughter, as they sat in the much
decorated drawing-room one afternoon, “you’ll be Mrs. Robinson.”
Miss Tipping, who was sitting next to the skipper, looked at him languishingly,
and put her head on his shoulder.
“I can hardly believe it,” she said, coyly.
Flower, who was in the same predicament, patted her head tenderly, as being
easier than replying.
“And I must say,” said Mrs. Tipping, regarding the pair, “I’m a plain woman,
and I speak my mind, that if it was me, I should want to know more about him
first.”
“I’m quite satisfied, mar,” said Miss Tipping, without raising her head.
“There’s your relations to be satisfied, Matilda,” said Uncle Porson, in an
important voice.
Miss Tipping raised her head and favoured the interrupter with a baleful stare,
whereupon Mr. Porson, scratching his neck feebly, glanced at Mrs. Tipping for
support.
“Our relations needn’t come to see us,” said his niece, at length. “He’s
marrying me, not my relations.”
“He’s making me his uncle, at any rate,” said Mr. Porson, with a sudden access
of dignity.
“You don’t mind, Fred, do you?” asked Miss Tipping, anxiously.
“I’d put up with more than that for your sake,” said Flower. “I needn’t tell
people.”
“That’s all very fine,” said Mrs. Tipping, taking up the cudgels for the
speechless and glaring victim of these pleasantries, “but there’s no mystery
about your uncle; everybody knows _him_. _He_ doesn’t disappear just as he is
going to get married, and be brought back in a cab months afterwards. _He_
isn’t full of secrets he mustn’t tell people who ought to know.”
“Never kep’ a secret in my life,” agreed Uncle Porson, whose head was buzzing
under this unaccustomed praise.
“I know quite eno’ugh about Fred,” said Miss Tipping, tenderly; “when I want
your opinion, mar, I’ll ask you for it.”
Mrs. Tipping’s reply was interrupted by the entrance of a young man from the
jeweller’s with four brooches for Flower to present to the bridesmaids. Mrs.
Tipping had chosen them, and it did not take the hapless skipper long to arrive
at the conclusion that she was far fonder of bridesmaids than he was. His stock
of money was beginning to dwindle, and the purchase of a second wedding suit
within a month was beginning to tell even upon his soaring spirits.
“There’s another thing about Fred I don’t quite like,” said Mrs. Tipping, as
she sat with the brooches ranged upon her capacious lap; “he’s extravagant.
I don’t like a mean man, but one who flings his money away is almost as bad.
These ’ere brooches are very pretty, and they do him credit, but I can’t say
but what something cheaper wouldn’t ’ave done as well.”
“I thought you liked them,” said the indignant Flower.
“I like them well enough,” said Mrs. Tipping, solemnly; “there’s nothing to
dislike in them. Seems to me they must have cost a lot of money, that’s all—I
suppose I may make a remark!”
Flower changed the subject, and turning to Miss Tipping began to speak in
a low voice of their new home. Miss Tipping wanted a sort of Eden with bar
improvements, and it was rather difficult to find.
They had discussed the matter before, and the wily skipper had almost
quarrelled with his bride-elect over the part of the country in which they
were to live, Miss Tipping holding out for the east coast, while Flower hotly
championed the south. Mrs. Tipping, with some emphasis, had suggested leaving
it until after the honeymoon, but a poetic advertisement of an inn in Essex
catching her daughter’s eye, it was decided that instant inspection should be
made.
They travelled down from Fenchurch Street, accompanied by Dick and Mrs.
Tipping, the skipper, who was painfully on the alert for any chance of escape,
making a great fuss of his foot, and confessing to a feeling of unusual
indisposition. He sat in one corner of the carriage with his eyes half closed,
while Miss Tipping, with her arm affectionately drawn through his, was the
unconscious means of preventing a dash for liberty as the train steamed slowly
through a station.
The nearest station to the Rose of Essex was five miles distant, a fact which
(owing perhaps to the expensive nature of newspaper charges) did not appear in
the advertisement.
“It’s a nice little place,” said the landlady of the Railway Hotel, as they
asked her opinion over lunch; “there’s a little land goes with it. If you want
to drive over, I’d better be having something got ready.”
Mrs. Tipping, who halved the duties with Flower, she doing the ordering and
he the paying, assented, and in a short time they were bowling rapidly along
through narrow country lanes to their destination. The skipper noticed with
pleasure the lonely nature of the country, and his heart beat fast as he
thought of the chances of success of a little plan of escape.
So far as appearance went, the inn was excellent. Roses clustered round the
porch and hung in fragrant bunches from the walls, while three or four sturdy
lime trees in one corner threw a grateful shade over a rustic table and
settles. Flower, with a grateful sigh, said that it was the very thing. Even
Mrs. Tipping, after a careful inspection, said that they might do worse; Dick,
with an air of professional gravity, devoted most of his attention to the
cellar, while the engaged couple walked slowly round the immense garden in the
rear exchanging tender whispers.
“We’ll think it over and let you know,” said Mrs. Tipping to the landlord.
“There’s been a lot after it,” said he slowly, with a glance at his wife.
“And yet it ain’t gone,” said the business-like Mrs. Tipping, pleasantly.
“I’m going to take it, mar,” said Miss Tipping, firmly.
Mrs. Tipping sighed at her haste, but finding her determined, went down the
cellar again, accompanied by Dick, for a last look round. Captain Flower,
leaning heavily on Miss Tipping’s arm, limped slowly to the carriage.
“Tired?” she enquired, tenderly, as he sank back in the cushions.
“Foot’s painful,” he said, with a faint smile. “Good gracious!”
“What’s the matter?” asked Miss Tipping, alarmed by his manner.
“I’ve left my pipe in the garden,” said Flower, rising, “the one you gave me. I
wouldn’t lose it for the world.”
“I’ll get it,” said Miss Tipping, springing out of the carriage. “Whereabouts
did you leave it, do you think?”
“By the bee-hives,” said Flower, pale with excitement, as he heard Mrs. Tipping
and Dick coming up from the cellar. “Make haste; somebody might take it.”
Miss Tipping darted into the house, and immediately afterwards the Tippings
ascended from the cellar, attended by the landlady.
“Driver,” said Flower, sharply.
“Sir,” said the man, looking round and tenderly rubbing his back.
“Take that to the lady who has just gone in, at once,” gabbled Flower; “hurry
up.”
For want of anything better, he handed the astonished driver his tobacco-pouch,
and waved him to the house. The lad descended from his perch and ran to the
door just as Dick Tipping, giving vent to a sharp cry, was rushing out. The cry
acted on the skipper like magic, and, snatching up the whip, he gave the horse
a cut in which was concentrated the fears of the last fortnight and the hopes
of his future lifetime.
The animal sprang forward madly just as Dick Tipping, who had pushed the driver
out of the way, rushed out in pursuit. There was a hard white road in front
and it took it at a gallop, the vehicle rocking from side to side behind it as
Flower played on it with the whip. Tipping was close behind, and the driver a
good second. Flower, leaving the horse to take care of itself for a time, stood
upright in the carriage and hurled cushions at his foremost pursuer. The third
cushion was long and limp, and, falling on end in front of him, twined itself
round his swift-moving legs and brought him heavily to the ground.
“He’s winded,” said Flower, as he saw the coachman stop and help the other man
slowly to his feet; “shows what a cushion can do.”
He clambered onto the seat, as a bend in the road shut the others from his
sight, and gathering up the reins, gave himself over to the joyous feeling of
his new-found liberty as they rushed through the air. His ideas of driving were
elementary, and his mode of turning corners was to turn them quickly and get it
over; but he drove on for miles without mishap, and, the horse having dropped
to a steady trot, began to consider his future movements.
“They’ll be setting the wires to work, I expect,” he thought, soberly. “What
a comfortable old world this must have been before they invented steam and
telegraph. I’ll go a little bit farther, and then tie it up to a tree.”
He made what he considered an endearing noise with his mouth, and the startled
animal at once bounded forward with the intention of getting out of hearing.
A gentle incline favoured the pace, which was now so considerable that the
skipper, seeing another craft approaching him, waved his hand towards it
warningly.
“I wonder who ought to get out of the way?” he said, thoughtfullly; “I s’pose
the horse knows.”
He left it to that able quadruped, after giving it a little bang on the flank
with the butt end of the whip to keep its faculties fresh. There was a frenzied
shout from the other vehicle, a sudden violent stoppage, with the crashing of
wood, and Flower, crawling out of the ditch, watched with some admiration the
strenuous efforts of his noble beast to take the carriage along on three wheels.
“Look what you’ve done!” roared the driver of the other vehicle, foaming with
passion, as he jumped out and held his plunging horse by the head. “Look at my
gig, sir! Look at it!”
Flower looked, and then returned the courtesy.
“Look at mine,” he said, impressively; “mine’s much the worst.”
“You were on the wrong side of the road,” shouted the other.
“I was there first,” said Flower; “it wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t
tried to get out of my way. The course I was on I should have passed you
easily.”
He looked up the road. His horse, trembling violently, was standing still, with
the wreck of the carriage behind it. He stooped mechanically, and picking up
the whip which was lying in the road said that he would go off for assistance.
“You stay here, sir,” said the other man with an oath.
“I won’t,” said the skipper.
His adversary made no reply, but, having by this time soothed his frightened
horse, took his whip out of its socket and strode towards him with the butt
raised over his head. Flower arranged his own whip the same way, and both men
being new to the weapon, circled round each other two or three times waiting
for a little instruction. Then the owner of the gig, whose temper was rising
every second, ran in and dealt the skipper a heavy blow on the head.
The blow dispelled an idea which was slowly forming there of asking the extent
of the damage, and, if it were not too much, offering to make it good. Ideas of
settlement vanished; ideas of honour, morality, and even escape vanished too;
all merged in the one fixed idea of giving the other man a harder blow than he
had given.
For a minute or two the battle raged fairly equally; both were securing a fair
amount of punishment. Then, under a heavy blow from Flower, his foe went down
suddenly. For a second or two the skipper held his breath with fear, then the
other man raised himself feebly on his knees, and, throwing away his whip,
staggered to his feet and, unfastening the reins, clambered unsteadily into his
gig and drove off without a word.
The victorious skipper looked up and down the lonely road, and shaking his head
sadly at the noble steed which had brought him into this mess, tenderly felt
his bruised and aching head, and then set off as fast as his foot would permit
up the road.
He looked about eagerly as he went for a place of concealment, fully aware
of the inability of a lame shipmaster to outdistance horseflesh. Hedges and
fields bounded both sides of the road, but half a mile farther along, on the
right-hand side, the field stretched away upwards to meet a wood. Towards this
wood Captain Flower, having first squeezed himself through a gap in the hedge,
progressed with all speed.
He sat on the trunk of a fallen pine to regain his breath, and eagerly looked
about him. To his disappointment he saw that the wood was of no great depth,
but was a mere belt of pines running almost parallel with the road he had
quitted. With the single idea of getting as far away from the scene of his
crime as possible, he began to walk through it.
The wood was very still, and the shade grateful after the heat of the sun. Just
beyond, the fields were shimmering in the heat, and he pricked up his ears as
the unmistakable sound of wheels and hoofs came across the silent fields. He
looked round wildly, and seeing a tiny cottage standing in a bit of a clearing,
made towards it.
A little old man twisted with rheumatism rose as he stood at the open door and
regarded him with a pair of bloodshot, but sharp, old eyes, while an old woman
sitting in a Windsor-chair looked up anxiously.
“Can I come in?” asked Flower.
“Aye,” said the old man, standing aside to let him pass.
“Hot day,” said the skipper, taking a seat.
“No, ’tain’t,” said the old man.
“Not so hot as yesterday,” said Flower, with a conciliatory smile.
“It’s ’otter than it was yesterday,” said the old man. “What ha’ you done to
your face?”
“I was climbing a tree,” said Flower, with a laugh, “and I fell down; I’ve hurt
my foot, too.”
“Served you right if you’d broke your neck,” said his amiable host, “climbing
trees at your time o’ life.”
“Nice cottage you’ve got here,” said the persistent Flower.
“I wish you ’ad to live in it,” said the old man.
He took a proffered cigar, and after eyeing it for some time, like a young
carver with a new joint, took out a huge clasp-knife and slowly sawed the end
off.
“Can I sleep here for the night?” asked Flower, at length.
“No, you can’t,” said the old man, drawing at his cigar.
He smoked on, with the air of a man who has just given a very clever answer to
a very difficult question.
“We ain’t on’y got one room besides this,” said the old woman solemnly. “Years
ago we used to have four and a wash-place.”
“Oh, I could sleep on the floor here,” said Flower, lightly. “I’ll pay you five
shillings.”
“Let’s see your money,” said the old man, leaning forward.
Flower put the sum in his hand. “I’ll pay now,” he said, heartily.
“The floor won’t run away,” said the other, pulling out an old leathern purse,
“and you can sleep on any part of it you like.”
Flower thanked him effusively. He was listening intently for any sounds
outside. If the Tippings and the man in the gig met, they would scour the
country-side, and almost certainly pay the cottage a visit.
“If you let me go upstairs and lie down for an hour or two,” he said, turning
to the old man, “I’ll give you another half-crown.”
The old man said nothing, but held out his hand, and after receiving the sum
got up slowly, and, opening a door by the fire-place, revealed a few broken
stairs, which he slowly ascended, after beckoning his guest to follow.
“It’s a small place,” he said, tersely, “but I daresay you’ve often slept in a
worse.”
Flower made no reply. He was looking from the tiny casement. Through an opening
in the trees he saw a couple of figures crossing the field towards the wood.
“If anybody asks you whether you have seen me, say no,” he said, rapidly, to
the old man. “I’ve got into a bit of a mess, and if you hide me here until it
has blown over, I’ll make it worth your while.”
“How much?” said the old man.
Flower hesitated. “Five pounds for certain,” he said, hastily, “and more if
you’re put to much trouble. Run down and stop your wife’s mouth quietly.”
“Don’t order me about,” said the old man, slowly; “I ain’t said I’ll do it yet.”
“They’re coming now,” said Flower, impatiently; “mind, if they catch me you
lose your five pounds.”
“All right,” said the other. “I’m doing it for the five pounds, mind, not for
you,” added this excellent man.
He went grunting and groaning down the narrow stairs, and the skipper, closing
the door, went and crouched down by the open casement. A few indistinct words
were borne in on the still air, and voices came gradually closer, until
footsteps, which had been deadened by the grass, became suddenly audible on the
stones outside the cottage.
Flower held his breath with anxiety; then he smiled softly and pleasantly as he
listened to the terms in which his somewhat difficult host was addressed.
“Now, gaffer,” said the man of the gig, roughly.
“Wake up, grandpa,” said Dick Tipping; “have you seen a man go by here?—blue
serge suit, moustache, face and head knocked about?”
“No, I ain’t seen ’im,” was the reply. “What’s he done?”
Tipping told him briefly. “We’ll have him,” he said, savagely. “We’ve got a
mounted policeman on the job, besides others. If you can catch him it’s worth
half a sov. to you.”
He went off hurriedly with the other man, and their voices died away in the
distance. Flower sat in his place on the floor for some time, and then, seeing
from the window that the coast was clear, went downstairs again.
The old woman made him up a bed on the floor after supper, although both he and
the old man assured her that it was unnecessary, and then, taking the lamp,
bade him good-night and went upstairs.
Flower, left to himself, rolled exultingly on his poor couch, and for the first
time in a fortnight breathed freely.
“If I do get into trouble,” he murmured, complacently, “I generally manage to
get out of it. It wants a good head in the first place, and a cool one in the
second.”