General Bounce; Or, The Lady and the Locusts. G. J. Whyte-Melville
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!”
CHAPTER II
THE ABIGAIL
BLANCHE’S BOUDOIR—A LADY’S LADY’S-MAID—MRS. KETTERING AT LUNCHEON—AN HOUR’S PRACTICE—THE “MAN OF ACTION”—FOOD FOR THE MIND—A FRIEND IN NEED—A VISIT TO DAVID JONES
Whilst Mr. Hardingstone offers an arm—and a good strong arm it is—to each of the ladies, and assists them slowly up the toilsome shingle, let us take advantage of Blanche’s absence to peep into her pretty room, where, as it is occupied only by Gingham, the maid, we need not fear the fate of Actæon as a punishment for our curiosity.
It is indeed a sweet little retreat, with its chintz hangings and muslin curtains, its open windows looking upon the shining Channel, and all its etceteras of girlish luxury and refinement, that to us poor old bachelors seem the very essence of ladylike comfort. In one corner stands the book-case, by which we may discover the pretty proprietor’s taste, at least in literature. Divers stiffish volumes on the sciences repose comfortably enough, as if they had not often been disturbed, and although scrupulously dusted, were but seldom opened; but on the sofa, near that full-length glass, a new novel lies upon its face, with a paper-cutter inserted at that critical page where the heroine refuses her lover (in blank verse), on the high-minded principle that he is not sufficiently poor to test her sincerity, or sufficiently sensible to know his own mind, or some equally valid and uncomplimentary reason—a consideration for the male sex, we may remark en passant, that is more common in works of fiction than in real life—while on the table a drawing-room scrap-book opens of itself at some thrilling lines addressed “To a Débutante,” and commencing, “Fair girl, the priceless gems upon thy brow,” by an anonymous nobleman, who betrays in the composition a wide range of fancy and a novel application of several English words. Flowers are disposed in one or two common glass vases, with a womanly taste that makes the apartment in that hired house like a home; and loose music, of the double-action pianoforte school, scatters itself about every time the door opens, in a system of fluttering disorder, which provokes Gingham to express audibly her abhorrence of a place that is “all of a litter.” “She can’t a-bear it—can you, Bully?” smirks the Abigail; and Blanche’s pet bullfinch, the darling of her very heart, makes an enormous chest, and whistles his reply in the opening notes of “Haste to the wedding!” breaking off abruptly in the middle of the second bar. Gingham is very busy, for she is putting Blanche’s “things to rights,” which means that she is looking over the young lady’s wardrobe with a view to discovering those colours and garments most becoming to her own rather bilious complexion, and losing no opportunity of acquainting herself with Blanche’s likes, dislikes, feelings, and disposition, by reading her books, opening her letters, and peeping into her album.
Now, Gingham had been with Mrs. Kettering for many years, and was a most trustworthy person; so her mistress affirmed and thought. Certainly, with all her weaknesses and faults, she was devotedly attached to Miss Blanche; and it is our firm belief that she loved her young lady, in her heart of hearts, better than her perquisites, her tea, or even a certain Tom Blacke, whose dashing appearance and assured vulgarity had made no slight impression on her too susceptible feelings. “Every Jack has his Gill,” if he and she can only find each other out at the propitious moment; and although the Gill in question owned to two-and-thirty, was by no means transparent in complexion, and had projecting teeth, and a saffron-coloured front, yet she was no exception to the beautiful law of nature, which provides for every variety of our