GENERAL BOUNCE
[Illustration: “‘Where have you been all day? You promised to
drive me out--you know you did!’”
_Page 77_]
GENERAL BOUNCE
or
The Lady and the Locusts
by
G. J. WHYTE-MELVILLE
Author of “Katerfelto,” “The Interpreter,” “Market Harborough,” etc.
Illustrated by Frances E. Ewan
London
Ward, Lock & Co., Limited
New York and Melbourne
PREFACE
Where the rose blushes in the garden, there will the bee and the
butterfly be found, humming and fluttering around. So is it in the
world; the fair girl, whose sweetness is enhanced by the fictitious
advantages of wealth and position, will ever have lovers and admirers
enough and to spare.
Burns was no bad judge of human nature; and he has a stanza on this
subject, combining the reflection of the philosopher with the _canny_
discrimination of the Scot.
“Away with your follies of beauty’s alarms,
The _slender_ bit beauty you clasp in your arms;
But gi’e me the lass that has acres of charms,
Oh, gi’e me the lass with the _weel-plenished_ farms.”
Should the following pages afford such attractive young ladies matter
for a few moments’ reflection, the author will not have written in
vain.
May he hope they will choose well and wisely; and that the withered
rose, when she has lost her fragrance, may be fondly prized and gently
tended by the hand that plucked her in her dewy morning prime.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. My Cousin 9
II. The Abigail 26
III. The Handsome Governess 41
IV. “Libitina” 58
V. Uncle Baldwin 72
VI. The Blind Boy 85
VII. Boot and Saddle 101
VIII. The Ball 116
IX. Want 130
X. Superfluity 146
XI. Campaigning Abroad 161
XII. Campaigning at Home 177
XIII. The World 194
XIV. To Persons about to Marry 204
XV. Penelope and her Suitors 212
XVI. Forgery 225
XVII. Club Law 236
XVIII. The Strictest Confidence 247
XIX. Dispatches 259
XX. Dawn in the East 276
XXI. Hospital 292
XXII. The Widow 303
XXIII. “Stop her” 309
XXIV. King Crack 323
XXV. “Dulce Domum” 333
XXVI. “Eudæmon” 347
XXVII. Flood and Field 360
XXVIII. “The Sad Sea Wave” 374
GENERAL BOUNCE
_OR, THE LADY AND THE LOCUSTS_
CHAPTER I
MY COUSIN
AN ENGLISHMAN’S HOLIDAY--ST. SWITHIN’S IN A CALM--THE
MERCHANT’S AMBITION--“MON BEAU COUSIN”--CASTLES IN THE AIR--A
LIVELY CRAFT--“HAIRBLOWER” AND HIS COLD BATH
Much as we think of ourselves, and with all our boasted civilisation,
we Anglo-Saxons are but a half-barbarian race after all. Nomadic,
decidedly nomadic in our tastes, feelings, and pursuits, it is but the
moisture of our climate that keeps us in our own houses at all, and
like our Scandinavian ancestors (for in turf parlance we have several
crosses of the old Norse blood in our veins), we delight
periodically--that is, whenever we have a fortnight’s dry weather--to
migrate from our dwellings, and peopling the whole of our own
sea-board, push our invading hordes over the greater part of Europe,
nor refrain from thrusting our outposts even into the heart of Asia,
till the astonished Mussulman, aghast at our vagaries, strokes his
placid beard, and with a blessing on his Prophet that he is not as we
are, soothes his disgust with a sentiment, so often repeated that in
the East it has become a proverb--viz. that “There is one devil, and
there are many devils; but there is _no_ devil like a Frank in a round
hat!”
It was but last autumn that, stepping painfully into our tailor’s
shop--for, alas! a course of London dinners cannot be persisted in,
season after season, without producing a decided tendency to gout in
the extremities--hobbling, then, into our tailor’s warehouse, as he
calls it, we were measured by an unfledged jackanapes, whose voice we
had previously heard warning his brother fractions that “an old gent
was a waitin’ inside,” instead of that spruce foreman who, for more
years than it is necessary to specify, has known our girth to an inch,
and our weight to a pound. Fearful that in place of the grave habit of
broadcloth which we affect as most suitable to our age and manner, we
might find ourselves equipped in one of the many grotesque disguises
in which young gentlemen now-a-days deem it becoming to hide
themselves, and described by the jackanapes, aforesaid, who stepped
round us in ill-concealed admiration of our corpulence, as “a walking
coat, a riding coat, a smoking coat, or a coat _to go to the stable
in_!” we ventured to inquire for “the person we usually saw,” and were
informed that “the gent as waited on us last year had gone for a few
months’ holiday to the Heast.” Heavens and earth, Mr. Bobstitch was
even then in Syria! What a Scandinavian! rather degenerate to be sure
in size and ferocity--though Bobstitch, being a little man, is
probably very terrible when roused--but yet no slight contrast to one
of those gaunt, grim, russet-bearded giants that made the despot of
the Lower Empire quake upon his throne. And yet Bobstitch was but
obeying the instinct which he inherits from the sea-kings his
ancestors, an instinct which in less adventurous souls than a tailor’s
fills our watering-places to overflowing, and pours the wealth, while
it introduces the manners, of the capital into every bight and bay
that indents the shores of Britain.
Doubtless the citizens are right. Let us, while we are in Scandinavian
vein, make use of an old Norse metaphor, and pressing into our service
the two Ravens of Odin, named Mind and Will, with these annihilate
time and space, so as to be, like the Irish orator’s bird, “in two
places at once.” Let us first of all take a retrospective glance at
Mrs. Kettering’s house in Grosvenor Square, one of the best houses, by
the way, to be had in London for love or money. We recollect it well,
not so many years ago, lit up for one of those great solemnities which
novelists call “a rout,” but which people in real life, equally
martially as well as metaphorically, designate “a drum.” To us
creeping home along the pavement outside the _fête_, it seemed the
realisation of fairyland. Row upon row, glaring carriage-lamps, like
the fabulous monsters keeping watch, illuminated the square and
adjoining streets, even to the public-house round the corner, that
night driving a highly remunerative trade; whilst on a nearer
inspection magnificent horses (horses, like ladies, look most
beautiful by candle-light), gorgeous carriages--none of your Broughams
and Clarences, but large, roomy, well-hung family coaches, with
cartoons of heraldry on the panels--gigantic footmen, and fat
coachmen, struck the beholder with admiration not totally unmixed with
awe. Then the awning that was to admit the privileged to the inner
realms of this earthly paradise, of which the uninitiated might know
but the exterior; what a gauzy, gaudy transparency it was, no
unfitting portal to that upper storey, from which the golden light was
hardly veiled by jalousies and window-blinds. Ever and anon, much
lashing of bay, brown, or chestnut sufferers, and the interference of
a tall policeman, with a hat made on purpose to be assaulted by
bludgeons, betokened the arrival of a fresh party, and angelic beings
in white robes, with glossy hair, tripped daintily up the steps over a
cloth, not of gold exactly, but of horse-hair, amongst a phalanx of
unwashed faces, gazing half enviously at such loveliness in full
dress. How beautiful we used to think these apparitions as we plodded
home to our quiet chambers! but young Bareface, our connecting link
with the great world, who goes to all the _best_ places, through the
influence of his aunt, Lady Champfront, assures us they don’t look
half so beautiful inside, and that he sees quite as pretty faces, and
hair quite as nicely done, at the little gatherings in Russell Square
and Bloomsbury, to which even we might go if we liked. A radical dog!
we don’t believe a word of it. Never mind, let us look at that house
in the dead time of year. Without and within, from attics to basement,
from the balcony facing the square to the empty bird-cage overlooking
a precipice of offices at the back, Repose and Ennui reign supreme.
Were it not for the knocking of the workmen next door, we might as
well be in the Great Desert. There _is_, we presume, a woman in
possession, but she has gone to “get the beer,” and if you have ever
sighed for a town-house, now is the time to be satisfied with your
rustic lot, and to hug yourself that you are not paying ground-rent
and taxes, church-rate, poor’s-rate, and water-rate, drainage,
lighting, and paving, for that ghastly palace of soot and cobwebs,
dust, dreariness, and decay. There is a scaffolding up in every third
house in the square; and workmen in paper caps, with foot-rules
sticking out of their fustian trousers, and complexions ingrained with
lime-dust, and guiltless of fresh water, seem to be the only
inhabitants of this deserted region, and even they are “between earth
and heaven.” Brown and parched are the unfortunate shrubs in those
gardens of which discontented householders “round the corner” covet so
to possess a key; and the very birds, sparrows, every feather of ’em,
hop about in dirty suits of plumage that can only be described as of
that colour unknown to naturalists, which other people call “grimy.”
Who would be in London in the autumn? Not Mrs. Kettering, certainly,
if she might be elsewhere; and although she had possessed this
excellent and commodious family mansion, with all its boudoirs,
retreats, and appurtenances, so well described in the advertisement,
but a short time, and was not the giver of that “reunion of
fashionables” we have depicted above (indeed, the hostess of that
evening has since been economising up two pair of stairs at Antwerp);
yet Mrs. Kettering having plenty of money, and being able to do what
she liked, had wisely moved herself, her fancies, her imperials, and
her family to the coast, where, obeying the instinct for freedom that
has driven Bobstitch to the desert, she was idly inhaling the salt
breezes of the Channel, and dazzling her eyes with the sun-glint that
sparkled over its dancing waves.
Some few years have elapsed since the events took place which we shall
endeavour to describe; but the white cliffs of our island change
little with the lapse of time, though the sea does make its
encroachments ever and anon when the wind has been blowing pretty
steady from the south-west for a fortnight or so, and the same scene
may be witnessed any fine day towards the middle of August as that
which we are about to contrast with the dulness, closeness, and
confinement of the great town-house in Grosvenor Square.
First, we must imagine a real summer’s day, such a day as in our
island we seldom enjoy till summer has well-nigh given place to
autumn, but which, when it does come, is worth waiting for. Talk of
climate! a real fine day in England, like a really handsome
Englishwoman, beats creation. Well, we must imagine one of these
bright, hot, hay-making days, almost too warm and dusty ashore, but
enjoyable beyond conception on the calm and oily waves, unruffled by
the breeze, and literally as smooth as glass. A sea-bird occasionally
dips her wing on the surface, and then flaps lazily away, as if she
too was as much inclined to go to sleep as yonder moveless fleet of
lugger, brig, bark, and schooner, with their empty sails, and their
heads all round the compass. There is a warm haze towards the land,
and the white houses of St. Swithin’s seem to glow and sparkle in the
heat, whilst to seaward a modified sort of mirage would make one fancy
one could plainly distinguish the distant coast of France.
Ashore, in those great houses, people are panting, and gasping, and
creating thorough draughts that fill their rooms with a small white
dust of a destructive tendency to all personal property. The children
up-stairs are running about in linen under-garments, somewhat more
troublesome than usual, with a settled flush on their little
peach-like cheeks, and the shining streets are deserted, save by the
perspiring pot-boy, and the fly-men drinking beer in their shirt
sleeves. Only afloat is there a chance of being cool; and
sailing-boat, gig, dinghy, and cobble, all are in requisition for the
throng of amateur mariners, rushing like ducklings to the refreshing
element.
It was on just such a day as this that Mrs. Kettering found it
extremely difficult to “trim the boat.” A mile or so from the shore,
that boat was slowly progressing, impelled by the unequal strength of
her nephew Charles, commonly called “Cousin Charlie,” and its worthy
proprietor, a fine specimen of the genus “seaman,” who certainly had
a Christian name, and probably a patronymic, but had sunk both
distinctions under the sobriquet of “Hairblower,” by which appellation
alone he was acknowledged by gentle and simple, bold and timid,
delicate ladies and bluff fishermen, along many a mile of sea-board,
up and down from St. Swithin’s.
“The least thing further, Master Charles,” said Hairblower, ever and
anon pulling the stripling’s efforts round with one hand. “Don’t ye
disturb, madam--don’t ye move, Miss Blanche; it’s not _your_ weight
that makes her roll.” And again he moistened the large, strong hand,
and turned to look out ahead.
In vain Mrs. Kettering shut up her parasol, and shifted her seat; in
vain she disposed her ample figure, first in one uncomfortable
position, then in another; she could _not_ “trim the boat,” and the
reason was simple enough. Mrs. Kettering’s weight was that of a lady
who had all her life been “a fine woman,” and was now somewhat past
maturity; whilst her daughter and only child, “Blanche,” the occupant
of the same bench, had but just arrived at that period when the girl
begins to lengthen out into the woman, and the slight, lanky figure,
not without a grace peculiar to itself, is nevertheless as delicate as
a gossamer, and as thin as its own gauzy French bonnet.
Mother and daughter were but little alike, save in their sweet and
rather languid tone of voice--no trifling charm in that sex which is
somewhat prone, especially under excitement, to pitch its organ in too
high a key. Mrs. Kettering was dark and brown of complexion, with
sparkling black eyes, and a rich colour, much heightened by the heat.
Not very tall in stature, but large and square of frame, well-filled
out besides by a good appetite, a good digestion, and, though nervous
and excitable, a good temper. Blanche, on the contrary, with her long
violet eyes, her curving dark eyelashes, and golden-brown hair, was so
slight of frame and delicate of tint as to warrant her mother’s
constant alarm for her health; not that there was any real cause for
anxiety, but mamma loved to fidget, if not about “dear Blanche,” about
something belonging to her; and failing these, had a constant fund of
worry in the exploits and escapades of graceless “Cousin Charlie.”
“Now, Charlie, my own dear boy” (Mrs. K. was very fond of Charlie), “I
know you must be over-heating yourself--nothing so bad for growing
lads. Mr. Hairblower, _pray_ don’t let him row so hard.”
“Gammon, aunt,” was Charlie’s irreverent reply. “Wait till we get her
head round with the flood; we’ll make her speak to it, won’t we,
Hairblower?”
“Well, Master Charles,” said the jolly tar, “I think as you and me
could pull her head under, pretty nigh,--howsoever, we be fairish off
for time, and the day’s young yet.”
“Blanche, Blanche!” suddenly exclaimed Mrs. Kettering, “look at the
weed just beyond that buoy--the alga, what’s its name, we were reading
about yesterday. Charlie, of course _you_ have forgotten. I shall soon
be obliged to get a finishing governess for you, Blanche.”
“Oh no, dearest mamma,” said the young girl, in her soft, sweet voice,
which always drew Hairblower’s eyes, in speechless admiration, to her
gentle countenance. “I could never learn with any one but you; and
then she might be cross, mamma, and I should hate her so after you!”
And Blanche took her mother’s plump, tightly-gloved hand between her
own, and looked up in her face with such a fond, bewitching
expression, that it was no wonder mamma doted on her, and Hairblower
and “Cousin Charlie” too.
Mrs. Kettering was one of those people whose superabundant energy must
have a certain number of objects whereon to expend itself. Though a
pleasant, cheerful woman, she was decidedly _blue_--that is to say,
besides being a good musician, linguist, draughtswoman, and worsted
worker, she had a few ideas, not very correct, upon ancient history, a
superficial knowledge of modern literature, thought Shakespeare
_vulgar_ and Milton _dry_, with a smattering of the ’ologies, and
certain theories concerning chemistry, which, if reduced to practice,
would have made her a most unsafe occupant for a ground-floor. With
these advantages, and her sunny, pleasant temper, she taught Blanche
_everything_ herself; and if the young lady was not quite so learned
as some of her associates, she had at least the advantage of a
mother’s companionship and tuition, and was as far removed as possible
from that most amusing specimen of affectation, an English girl who
has formed her manner on that of a French governess.
Mrs. Kettering had gone through her share of troubles in her youth,
and being of a disposition by no means despondent, was rather happy
under difficulties than otherwise. We do not suppose she married her
first love: we doubt if women often do, except in novels; and the late
Mr. K. was a gentleman of an exterior certainly more respectable than
romantic. His manners were abrupt and commercial, but his name at the
back of a bill was undeniable. The lady whom he wooed and won was old
enough to know her own mind; nor have we reason to suppose but that in
pleasing him she pleased herself. Many a long year they toiled and
amassed, and old Kettering attended closely to business, though he
never showed his books to his wife; and Mrs. Kettering exercised her
diplomacy in migrating once every five years further and further
towards “the West End.” Their last house but one was in Tyburnia, and
then old Kettering put a finishing stroke to his business, made a shot
at indigo which landed him more thousands than our modest ideas can
take in, and enabling him to occupy that mansion in Grosvenor Square
which looked so dull in the autumn, placed Mrs. Kettering at once on
the pedestal she had all her life been sighing to attain;--perhaps she
was disappointed when she got there. However that may be, the
enterprising merchant himself obtained little by his new residence,
save a commodious vault belonging to it in a neighbouring church, in
which his remains were soon after deposited, and a tablet, pure and
unblemished as his own commercial fame, erected to his memory by his
disconsolate widow. How disconsolate she was, poor woman! for a time,
with her affectionate nature: but then her greatest treasure, Blanche,
was left; and her late husband, as the most appropriate mark of his
confidence and esteem, bequeathed the whole of his property, personal
and otherwise, to his well-beloved wife, so the blow was to a certain
degree softened, and Mrs. Kettering looked uncommonly radiant and
prosperous even in her weeds.
Now, it is very pleasant and convenient to have a large property left
you at your own disposal, more especially when you are blessed with a
child on whom you dote, to succeed you when you have no further
occasion for earthly treasure; and, in the eyes of the world, this was
Mrs. Kettering’s agreeable lot. The eyes of the world, as usual, could
not look into the cupboard where the skeleton was; but our poor widow,
or rather our rich widow, was much hampered by the shape which no one
else knew to exist.
The fact is, old Mr. Kettering had a crotchet. Being a rich man, he
had a right to a dozen; but he was a sensible, quiet old fellow, and
he contented himself with one. Now, this crotchet was the invincible
belief that he, John Kettering, was the lineal male representative of
one of the oldest families in England. How he came to have lost the
old Norman features and appearance, or how it happened that such a
lofty descent should have merged in his own person as junior clerk to
a large City counting-house, he never troubled himself to inquire; he
was satisfied that the oldest blood in Europe coursed through his
veins, and with the pedigree he supposed himself to possess (though
its traces were unfortunately extinct), he might marry whom he
pleased. As we have seen, he did marry a very personable lady; but,
alas! she gave him no male heir. Under a female succession, all his
toil, all his astuteness, all his money, would not raise the family
name to the proud position he believed its due. He could not bear the
idea of it; and he never really loved poor Blanche half so much as
that engaging child deserved. When all chance of a son was hopeless,
he resolved to bring up and educate his only brother’s orphan child, a
handsome little boy, whose open brow and aristocratic lineaments won
the old man’s favour from the first.
“Cousin Charlie,” in consequence, became an inmate of the Kettering
family, and was usually supposed by strangers to be the elder brother
of pretty little Blanche.
These intentions, however, were kept a dead secret; and the children
knew as little as children generally do of their future prospects, or
the path chalked out for them through life. With all his fancied
importance, old Kettering was a good, right-feeling man; and although
it is our belief that he revoked and destroyed several testamentary
documents, he ended by leaving everything to his wife, in her own
power, as he worded it, “in testimony of his esteem for her character,
and confidence in her affection,”--previously exacting from her a
solemn promise that she would eventually bequeath the bulk of her
wealth to his nephew, should the lad continue to behave well, and
_like a gentleman_--making a provision for Blanche at her own
discretion, but not exceeding one-eighth of the whole available
property.
The testator did not long survive his final arrangements. And though
her promise cost his widow many a sleepless night, she never dreamed
of breaking it, nor of enriching her darling child at the expense of
her nephew.
Mrs. Kettering was a woman all over, and we will not say the idea of
uniting the two cousins had not entered her mind; on the contrary,
brought up together as they were, she constantly anticipated this
consummation as a delightful release from her conflicts between duty
and inclination. She was, besides, very fond of “Cousin Charlie,” and
looked eagerly forward to the day when she might see this “charming
couple,” as she called them, fairly married and settled. With all
these distractions, it is no wonder that Mrs. Kettering, who, though a
bustling, was an undecided woman, could never quite make up her mind
to complete her will. It was a matter of the greatest importance; so
first she made it, and then tore it up, and then constructed a fresh
one, which she omitted to sign until things were more certain, and
eventually mislaid; while, in the meantime, Blanche and “Cousin
Charlie” were growing up to that age at which young people, more
especially in matters of love-making, are pretty resolutely determined
to have a will of their own.
The bridegroom presumptive, however, was one of those young gentlemen
in whose heads or hearts the idea of marriage is only contemplated as
a remote possibility, and a dreaded termination to a life of
enjoyment--in much the same light as that in which the pickpocket
views transportation beyond the seas. He believes it to be the common
lot of mankind, but that it may be indefinitely postponed with a
little circumspection, and in some cases of rare good fortune even
eluded altogether.
It is curious to observe at what an early age the different instincts
of the sexes develop themselves in children. Little Miss can scarcely
waddle before she shoulders a doll, which she calls her baby, and on
which she lavishes much maternal care, not without certain wholesome
correction. From her earliest youth, the abstract idea of wife and
motherhood is familiar to her mind; and to be married, though she
knows not what it is, as natural and inevitable a destiny as to learn
music and have a governess. Young Master, on the contrary, has no idea
of being a “pater familias.” His notion of being grown up is totally
unconnected with housekeeping. When “he is a man, he means to be a
soldier, or a sailor, or a pastry-cook--he will have a gun and
hunters, and go all day to the stable, and eat as much as he chooses,
and drink port wine like papa;” but to bring up children of his own,
and live in one place, is the very last thing he dreams of. “Cousin
Charlie” entertained the usual notions of his kind. Although an
orphan, he had never known the want of a parent--uncle and aunt
Kettering supplying him with as kind and indulgent a father and mother
as a spoilt little boy could desire. And although he had his childish
sorrows, such as parting from Blanche, going to school, being whipped
according to his deserts when there, and thus smuggled through that
amusing work, the Latin Grammar; yet, altogether, his life was as
happy as any other child’s of his own age, on whom health, and love,
and plenty had shone from the day of its birth.
Of course, old John Kettering sent him to Eton, that most aristocratic
of schools, where Charlie learnt to swim--no mean accomplishment;
arrived at much perfection in his “wicket-keeping” and “hitting to the
leg,” as, indeed, he deserved, for the powers of application he
evinced in the study of cricket; was taught to “feather an oar” in a
method which the London watermen pronounced extremely inefficient; and
acquired a knack of construing Horace into moderately bad English,
with a total disregard for the ideas, habits, prejudices, and
intentions of that courtly bard. Of course, too, he was destined for
the army. With _his_ prospects, in what other profession could he get
through his allowance, and acquire gentlemanlike habits of
extravagance in what is termed good society? Old Kettering wanted to
make his nephew a gentleman--that was it. When asked how Charlie was
getting on at Eton, and what he learnt there, the uncle invariably
replied, “Learn, sir! why, he’ll learn to be a gentleman.”
It is a matter for conjecture whether the worthy merchant was capable
of forming an opinion as to the boy’s progress in this particular
study, or whether he was himself a very good judge of the variety he
so much admired. Our own idea is, that neither birth, nor riches, nor
education, nor manner, suffice to constitute a gentleman; and that
specimens are to be found at the plough, the loom, and the
forge, in the ranks, and before the mast, as well as in the
officers’ mess-room, the learned professions, and the Upper House
itself. To our fancy, a gentleman is courteous, kindly, brave, and
high-principled--considerate towards the weak, and self-possessed
amongst the strong. High-minded and unselfish, “he does to others as
he would they should do unto him,” and shrinks from the meanness of
taking advantage of his neighbour, man or woman, friend or foe, as he
would from the contamination of cowardice, duplicity, tyranny, or any
other blackguardism. “_Sans peur et sans reproche_”--he has a “lion’s
courage with a woman’s heart”; and such a one, be he in a peer’s robes
or a ploughman’s smock--backing before his sovereign or delving for
his bread--we deem a very Bayard for chivalry--a very Chesterfield for
good breeding and good sense. We are old-fashioned though in our
ideas, and doubtless our sentiments may be dubbed slow by the young,
and vulgar by the great. Still, even these dissentients would, we
think, have been satisfied with “Cousin Charlie’s” claims to be
considered a “gentleman.”
Nature had been beforehand with old Kettering, and had made him one of
her own mould. Not all the schools in Europe could have spoiled or
improved him in that particular. And his private tutor’s lady
discovered this quality, with all a woman’s intuitive tact, the very
first evening he spent at the vicarage of that reverend Crichton, who
prepared young gentlemen of fifteen years and upwards for _both_ the
universities and _all_ the professions.
“What do you think of the new pupil, my dear?” said Mr. Nobottle to
his wife--a dean’s daughter, no less!--as he drew up the connubial
counterpane to meet the edge of his night-cap. “He was a wild lad, I
hear, at Eton. I am afraid we shall have some trouble with him.”
“Not a bit of it,” was the reply; “he is a gentleman every inch of
him. I saw it at once by the way he helped Tim in with his
portmanteau. Binks, of course, was out of the way,--and that reminds
me, Mr. Nobottle, you never _will_ speak to that man,--what’s the use
of having a butler? And then, he’s such a remarkably good-looking
boy--but I daresay you’re half asleep already.”
And, sure enough, patient Joseph Nobottle was executing a prolonged
and marital snore.
Mrs. Nobottle found no occasion to recant her predictions; and Charlie
was now spending his summer vacation with Mrs. Kettering at St.
Swithin’s.
We have left the party so long in their boat, that they have had ample
time to “trim” or sink her. Neither of these events, however, took
place; and after pulling round a Swedish brig, an enormous tub, very
_wholesome_-looking, as Hairblower said, and holding a polyglot
conversation with an individual in a red night-cap, who grinned at the
ladies, and offered them “schnapps,” they turned the little craft’s
head towards the shore, and taking “the flood,” as Charlie had
previously threatened, bent themselves to their work, and laid out
upon their oars in a style that satisfied even the seaman, and
enraptured the lad.
“What a dear boy it is!” thought Mrs. Kettering, as she looked at
Charlie’s open countenance, and his fair golden curls, blowing about
his face, browned by the weather to a rich manly hue, and lit up with
the excitement and exercise of his work. Many qualms of conscience
crossed Mrs. Kettering’s mind, in the transit of that mile and a half
of blue water which sparkled between “the Swede” and the shore. Much
she regretted her want of decision and habits of delay in not
completing the important document that should at once make that
handsome boy the head of his family; and firmly she resolved that not
another week should pass without a proper consultation of the
universal refuge, “her family man-of-business,” and a further legal
drawing-up of her last will and testament. Then she remembered she had
left one unfinished, that would make an excellent rough draft for the
future document; then she wondered where she had put it; and then she
thought what a husband the handsome cousin would make for her own
beautiful girl; and rapidly her ideas followed each other, till, in
her mind’s eye, she saw the wedding--the bridesmaids--the
procession--the breakfast--and, though last, not least, the very
bonnet, not too sombre, which she herself should wear on the occasion.
Not one word did Mrs. Kettering hear of a long-winded story with which
Hairblower was delighting Blanche and Charlie; and which, as it seemed
to create immense interest and sympathy in his young listeners, and
is, besides, a further example of the general superstition of sailors
as to commencing any undertaking on a Friday, we may as well give, as
nearly as possible, in his own words.
“Blown, Master Charles?” said the good-humoured seaman, in answer to a
question from hard-working Charlie. “Blown? Not a bit of it; nor yet
tired; nor you neither. I _was_ a bit bamboozled though once somewhere
hereaway. It’s a good many years past now; but I don’t think as _I_
shall ever forget it. If you’d like to hear it, Miss Blanche, I’ll
tell it you, as well as I can. You see, it was rather a ‘circumstance’
from beginning to end. Well, the fact is, I had built a smartish craft
very soon after I was out of my time, and me and a man we used to call
‘Downright’ went partners in her, and although maybe she was a trifle
crank, and noways useful for stowage, we had pretty good times with
her when the mackerel was early, and the prices pretty stiffish. But
there never was no real luck about her, and I’ll tell ye how it was.
My uncle, he promised to help me with the money for her of a Friday.
She was put upon the stocks of a Friday--finished off of a
Friday--sailed her first trip of a Friday--and went down of a Friday;
so, as I say, Friday’s the worst day, to my mind, in the whole week.
Well, the _Spanking Sally_--that’s what we called her, Miss--always
carried a weather helm. And one day--it was a Friday, too--me and my
mate was coming in with a fairish cargo--Downright he said all along
she was over-deep in the water--with a light breeze from the
nor’-nor’-west, and the tide about half-flood, as it might be now. I
had just gone forward to look to the tackle, when the wind suddenly
shifted right on the other tack, and looking out down Channel, I saw
what was coming. Black, was it, Master Charlie? Not a bit; it was a
white one; and I knew then we should get it _hot and heavy_. It takes
something pretty cross to frighten _me_, but I own I didn’t like the
looks of it. Well, afore I could douse foresail the squall took her.
She capsized, and down she went; and though me and Downright stood by
for a start to windward, we never knew exactly how it was till we
found ourselves grinning at each other over a spare oar that happened
to be on board when she misbehaved, for all the world like two boys
playing at see-saw with their mouths full of salt water. Downright he
was an older man, and not so strong as me; so when I saw two was no
company for one oar, I left it; and thinks I, if I can get off my
fisherman’s boots and some of my clothes, I may have a swim for it
yet.
“The squall was too soon over to get up anything like a sea, and
Downright he held on to his oar and struck out like a man. Well, what
between floating and treading water, I got most of things clear. I was
as strong as a bull then, and though it was a long swim for a man I
had before me, I never lost heart noway. Downright, too, kept on close
in my wake; we didn’t say much, you may be sure, but I know _I_
thought of his missus and four children. At last I hear him whisper
quite hoarse-like, ‘Hairblower, it’s no use, I be goin’ down now!’ And
when I turned on my back to look at him he was quite confused, and had
let the oar cast off altogether. I couldn’t see it nowhere. I tried to
get alongside of him, but he was gone. I saw _the bubbles_ though,
and dived for him, but it was no use, and after that I held on alone.
The sun was getting down too, and queer fancies began to come into my
head about Downright. Sometimes I thought he was in heaven _then_, and
once I’ll swear I heard something whisper to me, but I couldn’t tell
what it said. The gulls, too, they began to stoop at me, and scream in
my ears; one long-winged ’un flapped me on the cheek, and for a bit I
scarcely knew whether I was dead or alive myself. At last, as I came
over the tops of the rollers, I saw the spars in the harbor, and the
chimneys at St. Swithin’s, and for awhile I thought I should get home
after all, so I turned on my side to get my breath a bit. I ought to
have made a buoy, as I calculated, about this time, but seek where I
would, I couldn’t see it nowhere, only looking down Channel to get my
bearings a little, I saw by the craft at anchor in the bay that the
tide was on the turn. My heart leapt into my mouth then. I had pulled
a boat often enough against the ebb hereabouts, and I knew how strong
it ran, and what my chance was, swimming, and nearly done too. First I
thought I’d go quietly down at once, like my mate did, and I said a
bit of a prayer, just inside like, and then I felt stronger, so I
thought what was best to be done; and says I, ‘’bout ship’ now is our
only chance, and maybe we shall get picked up by some fishing craft,
or such like, afore we drift clean out to sea again. Well, the Lord’s
above all, and though I thought once or twice I was pretty nigh out of
my mind, I _was_ picked up at last by a Frenchman. _He’d_ no call to
be where he was; I think he was there special, but I knew very little
about anything else, for I was in the hospital nine weeks afore I
could remember as much as I’ve told you. Howsoever, Friday’s an
unlucky day, Miss Blanche, you may take your Bible oath of it.”
Hairblower did _not_ tell them that half his earnings as soon as he
got well went to the support of his mate’s widow and her four
children; perhaps it was as well he did not, for Blanche’s eyes were
already full of tears, and Charlie felt more than half inclined to
embrace the honest seaman, but a bump against the shingle disturbed
all their comments, at the same time that it broke through Mrs.
Kettering’s day-dreams, and Blanche had hardly got as far as “Here we
are, mamma, and here’s----” when she was interrupted by Cousin
Charlie’s vociferous “Look alive, aunt. Hurrah! three cheers--who’d
have thought it? There’s Frank Hardingstone!”