Susannah, having fitted forth Aunt Barbree and watched her from the gate
as she took the road to Saltash, had returned to the house in an
unpleasant temper. She was a good servant and would stand any amount of
ordering about, but she hated responsibility. To be left alone on a
Saturday afternoon in the height of the mazzard season to cope with
Heaven-knew-how-many-customers--to lay the tables in the arbours, boil the
water, take orders and, worst of all, give change (Susannah had never
learnt arithmetic)--was an outlook that fairly daunted her spirit.
Her temper, too, for a week past had not been at its best. She, like her
mistress, had missed Nandy. In spite of his faults he was a help: and,
as for faults, who in this wicked world is without 'em? It's by means of
their faults that you grow accustomed to folks.
The early afternoon was hot and thundery, and the hum of the bees
(Aunt Barbree was famous for her honey) came lazy-like through the open
window. Susannah prayed to the Lord that this quiet might last--until
four o'clock, at any rate. Short of an earthquake in Plymouth (which,
being pious, she didn't dare to pray for) nothing would ward off visitors
beyond that hour, but, with luck, Aunt Barbree might be expected back soon
after five, when the giving of change would begin. Susannah looked at the
clock. The time was close upon half-past two. She might, with any luck,
count on another hour.
But it wasn't to be.
She had scarcely turned from studying the clock to open the sliding door
of the china-cupboard and set out her stock of plates and cups and
saucers, before her ear caught the sound of voices--of loud voices too--on
the steps above the landing-quay: and almost before she could catch her
breath there came a knock on the door fit to wake the dead. Susannah
whipped up her best apron off the chair where she had laid it ready to
hand, and hurried out, pinning it about her.
The first sight she saw when she opened the door was a sailorman standing
there under the verandah, and smiling at her with a shiny, good-natured
face. He was rigged out in best shore-going clothes--tarpaulin hat, blue
coat and waistcoat, and duck trousers, with a broad waist-belt of leather.
Behind him stood another sailorman, older and more gloomy looking; and
behind the pair of them Susannah's eye ranged over half a dozen seedy
tide-waiters and longshoremen, all very bashful-looking, and crowded among
a bevy of damsels of the sort that you might best describe as painted
hussies.
"Good afternoon, ma'am," said the sailorman, with a pacifying sort of
smile.
"Good afternoon," said Susannah, catching her breath. "But, all the same,
this isn't Babylon."
"You serve teas here, ma'am?"
"No, we don't," answers Susannah, very sturdy.
"Then the board hav' made a mistake," said the sailor, scratching the back
of his head and pushing his tarpaulin hat forward and sideways over his
eyebrows. "It _said_ that you was patronised by the naval and military,
and that teas was provided."
"But we're a respectable house," said Susannah.
The sailorman gazed at her, long and earnest, and turned to his mate.
"Good Lord, Bill!" said he, "what a dreadful mistake!"
"Ho!" said one of the ladies, tossing her chin. "Ho, I see what it is!
The likes of us ain't good enough for the likes of her!"
"Not by a long chalk, ma'am," agreed Susannah, her temper rising.
"It's this way, ma'am," put in the sailorman very peaceable-like.
"My name's Ben Jope, of the _Vesuvius_ bomb, and this here's my mate Bill
Adams. We was paid off this morning at half-past nine, and picked up a
few hasty friends ashore for a Feet-Sham-Peter. But o' course if this
here is a respectable house there's no more to be said--except that maybe
you'll be good enough to recommend us to one that isn't."
The poor fellow meant it well, but somehow or other his words so annoyed
Susannah that she bounced in and slammed the door in his face. He stood
for a while staring at it, and then turned and led the way down the steps
again to the quay, walking like a man in a dream, and not seeming to hear
the ladies--though one or two were telling him that he hadn't the pluck of
a louse: and down at the quay the company came upon Master Nandy,
dandering towards them with his hands in his pockets.
"Hullo!" said Nandy.
"Hullo to _you!_" said Mr. Jope.
"Turned you out?" asked Nandy.
Mr. Jope glanced back at the roof of Merry-Garden, which from the quay
could be seen just overtopping the laylocks. "She's a sperrited woman,"
he said; and after that there was a pause until Nandy asked him who he
thought he was staring at. "I dunno," said Mr. Jope. "You puts me in
mind of a boy I knew, one time. I stood godfather to him, and he grew up
to be afflicted in much the same manner."
"I've been unwell," said Nandy, "and I haven't got over the effects of
it."
"No, by George, you haven't," agreed Mr. Jope. "I've heard tar-water
recommended."
"Is it worse tasted than sulphur-water?" asked Nandy, and with that a
wicked thought came into his mind, for he still nursed a spite against all
that he had suffered under Dr. Clatworthy's care. "If you can't get taken
in at Merry-Garden," said he, "why don't you try Hi-jeen Villa, up the
creek?"
"What's that?"
"It's--it's another establishment," said Nandy.
"Respectable? You'll excuse my askin'--"
"Tisn' for me to judge," said Nandy; "but they sit about the garden in
their nightshirts, with a footman carryin' round the drinks."