Mr. Richard Catesby, second officer of the ss. _Wizard_, emerged from
the dock-gates in high good-humour to spend an evening ashore. The
bustle of the day had departed, and the inhabitants of Wapping, in
search of coolness and fresh air, were sitting at open doors and
windows indulging in general conversation with anybody within earshot.
[Illustration]
Mr. Catesby, turning into Bashford’s Lane, lost in a moment all this
life and colour. The hum of distant voices certainly reached there, but
that was all, for Bashford’s Lane, a retiring thoroughfare facing a
blank dock wall, capped here and there by towering spars, set an
example of gentility which neighbouring streets had long ago decided
crossly was impossible for ordinary people to follow. Its neatly
grained shutters, fastened back by the sides of the windows, gave a
pleasing idea of uniformity, while its white steps and polished brass
knockers were suggestive of almost a Dutch cleanliness.
Mr. Catesby, strolling comfortably along, stopped suddenly for another
look at a girl who was standing in the ground-floor window of No. 5. He
went on a few paces and then walked back slowly, trying to look as
though he had forgotten something. The girl was still there, and met
his ardent glances unmoved: a fine girl, with large, dark eyes, and a
complexion which was the subject of much scandalous discussion among
neighbouring matrons.
“It must be something wrong with the glass, or else it’s the bad
light,” said Mr. Catesby to himself; “no girl is so beautiful as that.”
He went by again to make sure. The object of his solicitude was still
there and apparently unconscious of his existence. He passed very
slowly and sighed deeply.
“You’ve got it at last, Dick Catesby,” he said, solemnly; “fair and
square in the most dangerous part of the heart. It’s serious this
time.”
He stood still on the narrow pavement, pondering, and then, in excuse
of his flagrant misbehaviour, murmured, “It was meant to be,” and went
by again. This time he fancied that he detected a somewhat supercilious
expression in the dark eyes—a faint raising of well-arched eyebrows.
His engagement to wait at Aldgate Station for the second-engineer and
spend an evening together was dismissed as too slow to be considered.
He stood for some time in uncertainty, and then turning slowly into the
Beehive, which stood at the corner, went into the private bar and
ordered a glass of beer.
He was the only person in the bar, and the landlord, a stout man in
his shirt-sleeves, was the soul of affability. Mr. Catesby, after
various general remarks, made a few inquiries about an uncle aged five
minutes, whom he thought was living in Bashford’s Lane.
[Illustration]
“I don’t know ’im,” said the landlord.
“I had an idea that he lived at No. 5,” said Catesby.
The landlord shook his head. “That’s Mrs. Truefitt’s house,” he said,
slowly.
Mr. Catesby pondered. “Truefitt, Truefitt,” he repeated; “what sort of
a woman is she?”
“Widder-woman,” said the landlord; “she lives there with ’er daughter
Prudence.”
Mr. Catesby said “Indeed!” and being a good listener learned that Mrs.
Truefitt was the widow of a master-lighterman, and that her son, Fred
Truefitt, after an absence of seven years in New Zealand, was now on
his way home. He finished his glass slowly and, the landlord departing
to attend to another customer, made his way into the street again.
He walked along slowly, picturing as he went the home-coming of the
long-absent son. Things were oddly ordered in this world, and Fred
Truefitt would probably think nothing of his brotherly privileges. He
wondered whether he was like Prudence. He wondered——
“By Jove, I’ll do it!” he said, recklessly, as he turned. “Now for a
row.”
He walked back rapidly to Bashford’s Lane, and without giving his
courage time to cool plied the knocker of No. 5 briskly.
The door was opened by an elderly woman, thin, and somewhat querulous
in expression. Mr. Catesby had just time to notice this, and then he
flung his arm round her waist, and hailing her as “Mother!” saluted her
warmly.
The faint scream of the astounded Mrs. Truefitt brought her daughter
hastily into the passage. Mr. Catesby’s idea was ever to do a thing
thoroughly, and, relinquishing Mrs. Truefitt, he kissed Prudence with
all the ardour which a seven-years’ absence might be supposed to
engender in the heart of a devoted brother. In return he received a box
on the ears which made his head ring.
“He’s been drinking,” gasped the dismayed Mrs. Truefitt.
“Don’t you know me, mother?” inquired Mr. Richard Catesby, in grievous
astonishment.
“He’s mad,” said her daughter.
“Am I so altered that _you_ don’t know me, Prudence?” inquired Mr.
Catesby; with pathos. “Don’t you know your Fred?”
“Go out,” said Mrs. Truefitt, recovering; “go out at once.”
Mr. Catesby looked from one to the other in consternation.
“I know I’ve altered,” he said, at last, “but I’d no idea—”
“If you don’t go out at once I’ll send for the police,” said the elder
woman, sharply. “Prudence, scream!”
“I’m not going to scream,” said Prudence, eyeing the intruder with
great composure. “I’m not afraid of him.”
Despite her reluctance to have a scene—a thing which was strongly
opposed to the traditions of Bashford’s Lane—Mrs. Truefitt had got as
far as the doorstep in search of assistance, when a sudden terrible
thought occurred to her: Fred was dead, and the visitor had hit upon
this extraordinary fashion of breaking the news gently.
“Come into the parlour,” she said, faintly.
Mr. Catesby, suppressing his surprise, followed her into the room.
Prudence, her fine figure erect and her large eyes meeting his
steadily, took up a position by the side of her mother.
“You have brought bad news?” inquired the latter.
“No, mother,” said Mr. Catesby, simply, “only myself, that’s all.”
Mrs. Truefitt made a gesture of impatience, and her daughter, watching
him closely, tried to remember something she had once read about
detecting insanity by the expression of the eyes. Those of Mr. Catesby
were blue, and the only expression in them at the present moment was
one of tender and respectful admiration.
“When did you see Fred last?” inquired Mrs. Truefitt, making another
effort.
“Mother,” said Mr. Catesby, with great pathos, “don’t you know me?”
“He has brought bad news of Fred,” said Mrs. Truefitt, turning to her
daughter; “I am sure he has.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Mr. Catesby, with a bewildered glance
from one to the other. “I am Fred. Am I much changed? You look the same
as you always did, and it seems only yesterday since I kissed Prudence
good-bye at the docks. You were crying, Prudence.”
Miss Truefitt made no reply; she gazed at him unflinchingly and then
bent toward her mother.
“He is mad,” she whispered; “we must try and get him out quietly. Don’t
contradict him.”
“Keep close to me,” said Mrs. Truefitt, who had a great horror of the
insane. “If he turns violent open the window and scream. I thought he
had brought bad news of Fred. How did he know about him?”
Her daughter shook her head and gazed curiously at their afflicted
visitor. She put his age down at twenty-five, and she could not help
thinking it a pity that so good-looking a young man should have lost
his wits.
“Bade Prudence good-bye at the docks,” continued Mr. Catesby, dreamily.
“You drew me behind a pile of luggage, Prudence, and put your head on
my shoulder. I have thought of it ever since.”
Miss Truefitt did not deny it, but she bit her lips, and shot a sharp
glance at him. She began to think that her pity was uncalled-for.
“I’m just going as far as the corner.”
“Tell me all that’s happened since I’ve been away,” said Mr. Catesby.
Mrs. Truefitt turned to her daughter and whispered. It might have been
merely the effect of a guilty conscience, but the visitor thought that
he caught the word “policeman.”
“I’m just going as far as the corner,” said Mrs. Truefitt, rising, and
crossing hastily to the door.
[Illustration]
The young man nodded affectionately and sat in doubtful consideration
as the front door closed behind her. “Where is mother going?” he asked,
in a voice which betrayed a little pardonable anxiety.
“Not far, I hope,” said Prudence.
“I really think,” said Mr. Catesby, rising—“I really think that I had
better go after her. At her age——”
He walked into the small passage and put his hand on the latch.
Prudence, now quite certain of his sanity, felt sorely reluctant to let
such impudence go unpunished.
“Are you going?” she inquired.
“I think I’d better,” said Mr. Catesby, gravely. “Dear mother—”
“You’re afraid,” said the girl, calmly.
Mr. Catesby coloured and his buoyancy failed him. He felt a little bit
cheap.
“You are brave enough with two women,” continued the girl,
disdainfully; “but you had better go if you’re afraid.”
Mr. Catesby regarded the temptress uneasily. “Would you like me to
stay?” he asked.
“I?” said Miss Truefitt, tossing her head. “No, I don’t want you.
Besides, you’re frightened.”
Mr. Catesby turned, and with a firm step made his way back to the room;
Prudence, with a half-smile, took a chair near the door and regarded
her prisoner with unholy triumph.
“I shouldn’t like to be in your shoes,” she said, agreeably; “mother
has gone for a policeman.”
“Bless her,” said Mr. Catesby, fervently. “What had we better say to
him when he comes?”
“You’ll be locked up,” said Prudence; “and it will serve you right for
your bad behaviour.”
Mr. Catesby sighed. “It’s the heart,” he said, gravely. “I’m not to
blame, really. I saw you standing in the window, and I could see at
once that you were beautiful, and good, and kind.”
“I never heard of such impudence,” continued Miss Truefitt.
“I surprised myself,” admitted Mr. Catesby. “In the usual way I am very
quiet and well-behaved, not to say shy.”
Miss Truefitt looked at him scornfully. “I think that you had better
stop your nonsense and go,” she remarked.
“Don’t you want me to be punished?” inquired the other, in a soft
voice.
“I think that you had better go while you can,” said the girl, and at
that moment there was a heavy knock at the front-door. Mr. Catesby,
despite his assurance, changed colour; the girl eyed him in perplexity.
Then she opened the small folding-doors at the back of the room.
“You’re only—stupid,” she whispered. “Quick! Go in there. I’ll say
you’ve gone. Keep quiet, and I’ll let you out by-and-by.”
She pushed him in and closed the doors. From his hiding-place he heard
an animated conversation at the street-door and minute particulars as
to the time which had elapsed since his departure and the direction he
had taken.
“I never heard such impudence,” said Mrs. Truefitt, going into the
front-room and sinking into a chair after the constable had taken his
departure. “I don’t believe he was mad.”
“Only a little weak in the head, I think,” said Prudence, in a clear
voice. “He was very frightened after you had gone; I don’t think he
will trouble us again.”
“He’d better not,” said Mrs. Truefitt, sharply. “I never heard of such
a thing—never.”
She continued to grumble, while Prudence, in a low voice, endeavoured
to soothe her. Her efforts were evidently successful, as the prisoner
was, after a time, surprised to hear the older woman laugh—at first
gently, and then with so much enjoyment that her daughter was at some
pains to restrain her. He sat in patience until evening deepened into
night, and a line of light beneath the folding-doors announced the
lighting of the lamp in the front-room. By a pleasant clatter of
crockery he became aware that they were at supper, and he pricked up
his ears as Prudence made another reference to him.
“If he comes to-morrow night while you are out I sha’n’t open the
door,” she said. “You’ll be back by nine, I suppose.”
Mrs. Truefitt assented.
“And you won’t be leaving before seven,” continued Prudence. “I shall
be all right.”
Mr. Catesby’s face glowed and his eyes grew tender; Prudence was as
clever as she was beautiful. The delicacy with which she had intimated
the fact of the unconscious Mrs. Truefitt’s absence on the following
evening was beyond all praise. The only depressing thought was that
such resourcefulness savoured of practice.
He sat in the darkness for so long that even the proximity of Prudence
was not sufficient amends for the monotony of it, and it was not until
past ten o’clock that the folding-doors were opened and he stood
blinking at the girl in the glare of the lamp.
“Quick!” she whispered.
Mr. Catesby stepped into the lighted room.
“The front-door is open,” whispered Prudence. “Make haste. I’ll close
it.”
She followed him to the door; he made an ineffectual attempt to seize
her hand, and the next moment was pushed gently outside and the door
closed behind him. He stood a moment gazing at the house, and then
hastened back to his ship.
“Seven to-morrow,” he murmured; “seven to-morrow. After all, there’s
nothing pays in this world like cheek—nothing.”
He slept soundly that night, though the things that the second-engineer
said to him about wasting a hard-working man’s evening would have lain
heavy on the conscience of a more scrupulous man. The only thing that
troubled him was the manifest intention of his friend not to let him
slip through his fingers on the following evening. At last, in sheer
despair at his inability to shake him off, he had to tell him that he
had an appointment with a lady.
“Well, I’ll come, too,” said the other, glowering at him. “It’s very
like she’ll have a friend with her; they generally do.”
“I’ll run round and tell her,” said Catesby. “I’d have arranged it
before, only I thought you didn’t care about that sort of thing.”
“Female society is softening,” said the second-engineer. “I’ll go and
put on a clean collar.”
[Illustration]
Catesby watched him into his cabin and then, though it still wanted an
hour to seven, hastily quitted the ship and secreted himself in the
private bar of the Beehive.
He waited there until a quarter past seven, and then, adjusting his tie
for about the tenth time that evening in the glass behind the bar,
sallied out in the direction of No. 5.
He knocked lightly, and waited. There was no response, and he knocked
again. When the fourth knock brought no response, his heart sank within
him and he indulged in vain speculations as to the reasons for this
unexpected hitch in the programme. He knocked again, and then the door
opened suddenly and Prudence, with a little cry of surprise and dismay,
backed into the passage.
“You!” she said, regarding him with large eyes. Mr. Catesby bowed
tenderly, and passing in closed the door behind him.
“I wanted to thank you for your kindness last night,” he said, humbly.
“Very well,” said Prudence; “good-bye.”
Mr. Catesby smiled. “It’ll take me a long time to thank you as I ought
to thank you,” he murmured. “And then I want to apologise; that’ll take
time, too.”
“You had better go,” said Prudence, severely; “kindness is thrown away
upon you. I ought to have let you be punished.”
“You are too good and kind,” said the other, drifting by easy stages
into the parlour.
Miss Truefitt made no reply, but following him into the room seated
herself in an easy-chair and sat coldly watchful.
“How do you know what I am?” she inquired.
“Your face tells me,” said the infatuated Richard. “I hope you will
forgive me for my rudeness last night. It was all done on the spur of
the moment.”
“I am glad you are sorry,” said the girl, softening.
“All the same, if I hadn’t done it,” pursued Mr. Catesby, “I shouldn’t
be sitting here talking to you now.”
Miss Truefitt raised her eyes to his, and then lowered them modestly to
the ground. “That is true,” she said, quietly.
“And I would sooner be sitting here than anywhere,” pursued Catesby.
“That is,” he added, rising, and taking a chair by her side, “except
here.”
Miss Truefitt appeared to tremble, and made as though to rise. Then she
sat still and took a gentle peep at Mr. Catesby from the corner of her
eye.
“I hope that you are not sorry that I am here?” said that gentleman.
Miss Truefitt hesitated. “No,” she said, at last.
“Are you—are you glad?” asked the modest Richard.
Miss Truefitt averted her eyes altogether. “Yes,” she said, faintly.
A strange feeling of solemnity came over the triumphant Richard. He
took the hand nearest to him and pressed it gently.
“I—I can hardly believe in my good luck,” he murmured.
“Good luck?” said Prudence, innocently.
“Isn’t it good luck to hear you say that you are glad I’m here?” said
Catesby.
“You’re the best judge of that,” said the girl, withdrawing her hand.
“It doesn’t seem to me much to be pleased about.”
Mr. Catesby eyed her in perplexity, and was about to address another
tender remark to her when she was overcome by a slight fit of coughing.
At the same moment he started at the sound of a shuffling footstep in
the passage. Somebody tapped at the door.
“Yes?” said Prudence.
“Can’t find the knife-powder, miss,” said a harsh voice. The door was
pushed open and disclosed a tall, bony woman of about forty. Her red
arms were bare to the elbow, and she betrayed several evidences of a
long and arduous day’s charing.
“It’s in the cupboard,” said Prudence. “Why, what’s the matter, Mrs.
Porter?”
Mrs. Porter made no reply. Her mouth was wide open and she was gazing
with starting eyeballs at Mr. Catesby.
“_Joe!_” she said, in a hoarse whisper. “_Joe!_”
Mr. Catesby gazed at her in chilling silence. Miss Truefitt, with an
air of great surprise, glanced from one to the other.
“_Joe!_” said Mrs. Porter again. “Ain’t you goin’ to speak to me?”
Mr. Catesby continued to gaze at her in speechless astonishment. She
skipped clumsily round the table and stood before him with her hands
clasped.
“Where ’ave you been all this long time?” she demanded, in a higher
key.
“You—you’ve made a mistake,” said the bewildered Richard.
“Mistake?” wailed Mrs. Porter. “Mistake! Oh, where’s your ’art?”
Before he could get out of her way she flung her arms round the
horrified young man’s neck and embraced him copiously. Over her bony
left shoulder the frantic Richard met the ecstatic gaze of Miss
Truefitt, and, in a flash, he realised the trap into which he had
fallen.
“_Mrs. Porter!_” said Prudence.
“It’s my ’usband, miss,” said the Amazon, reluctantly releasing the
flushed and dishevelled Richard; “’e left me and my five eighteen
months ago. For eighteen months I ’aven’t ’ad a sight of ’is blessed
face.”
She lifted the hem of her apron to her face and broke into discordant
weeping.
“Don’t cry,” said Prudence, softly; “I’m sure he isn’t worth it.”
Mr. Catesby looked at her wanly. He was beyond further astonishment,
and when Mrs. Truefitt entered the room with a laudable attempt to
twist her features into an expression of surprise, he scarcely noticed
her.
“It’s my Joe,” said Mrs. Porter, simply.
“Good gracious!” said Mrs. Truefitt. “Well, you’ve got him now; take
care he doesn’t run away from you again.”
“I’ll look after that, ma’am,” said Mrs. Porter, with a glare at the
startled Richard.
[Illustration]
“She’s very forgiving,” said Prudence. “She kissed him just now.”
“Did she, though,” said the admiring Mrs. Truefitt. “I wish I’d been
here.”
“I can do it agin, ma’am,” said the obliging Mrs. Porter.
“If you come near me again—” said the breathless Richard, stepping back
a pace.
“I shouldn’t force his love,” said Mrs. Truefitt; “it’ll come back in
time, I dare say.”
“I’m sure he’s affectionate,” said Prudence.
Mr. Catesby eyed his tormentors in silence; the faces of Prudence and
her mother betokened much innocent enjoyment, but the austerity of Mrs.
Porter’s visage was unrelaxed.
“Better let bygones be bygones,” said Mrs. Truefitt; “he’ll be sorry
by-and-by for all the trouble he has caused.”
“He’ll be ashamed of himself—if you give him time,” added Prudence.
Mr. Catesby had heard enough; he took up his hat and crossed to the
door.
“Take care he doesn’t run away from you again,” repeated Mrs. Truefitt.
“I’ll see to that, ma’am,” said Mrs. Porter, taking him by the arm.
“Come along, Joe.”
Mr. Catesby attempted to shake her off, but in vain, and he ground his
teeth as he realised the absurdity of his position. A man he could have
dealt with, but Mrs. Porter was invulnerable. Sooner than walk down the
road with her he preferred the sallies of the parlour. He walked back
to his old position by the fireplace, and stood gazing moodily at the
floor.
Mrs. Truefitt tired of the sport at last. She wanted her supper, and
with a significant glance at her daughter she beckoned the redoubtable
and reluctant Mrs. Porter from the room. Catesby heard the kitchen-door
close behind them, but he made no move. Prudence stood gazing at him in
silence.
“If you want to go,” she said, at last, “now is your chance.”
Catesby followed her into the passage without a word, and waited
quietly while she opened the door. Still silent, he put on his hat and
passed out into the darkening street. He turned after a short distance
for a last look at the house and, with a sudden sense of elation, saw
that she was standing on the step. He hesitated, and then walked slowly
back.
“Yes?” said Prudence.
“I should like to tell your mother that I am sorry,” he said, in a low
voice.
“It is getting late,” said the girl, softly; “but, if you really wish
to tell her—Mrs. Porter will not be here to-morrow night.”
She stepped back into the house and the door closed behind her.