Once Aboard the Lugger-- The History of George and his Mary Read online

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  ONCE ABOARD THE LUGGER--

  THE HISTORY OF GEORGE AND HIS MARY

  By A. S. M. Hutchinson

  CONTENTS.

  The Author's Advertisement Of His Novel

  BOOK I.

  _Of George._

  I. Excursions In A Garden II. Excursions In Melancholy III. Upon Modesty In Art: And Should Be Skipped IV. Excursions In A Hospital V. Upon Life: And May Be Missed VI. Magnificent Arrival Of A Heroine VII. Moving Passages With A Heroine VIII. Astonishing After-Effects Of A Heroine

  BOOK II.

  _Of his Mary._

  I. Excursions In The Memory Of A Heroine II. Excursions In Vulgarity III. Excursions In The Mind Of A Heroine IV. Excursions In A Nursery V. Excursions At A Dinner-Table

  BOOK III.

  _Of Glimpses at a Period of this History: Of Love and of War._

  I. Notes On The Building Of Bridges II. Excursions Beneath The Bridge III. Excursions In Love IV. Events And Sentiment Mixed In A Letter V. Beefsteak For 14 Palace Gardens VI. A Cab For 14 Palace Gardens

  BOOK IV.

  _In which this History begins to rattle._

  I. The Author Meanders Upon The Enduring Hills; And The Reader Will Lose Nothing By Not Accompanying Him II. An Exquisite Balcony Scene; And Something About Sausages III. Alarums And Excursions By Night IV. Mr. Marrapit Takes A Nice Warm Bath V. Miss Porter Swallows A Particularly Large Sweet VI. The Girl Comes Near The Lugger

  BOOK V.

  _Of Mr. Marrapit upon the Rack: Of George in Torment._

  I. Prosiness Upon Events: So Uneventful That It Should Be Skipped II. Margaret Fishes; Mary Prays III. Barley Water For Mr. Marrapit IV. The Rape Of The Rose V. Horror At Herons' Holt VI. A Detective At Herons' Holt VII. Terror At Dippleford Admiral VIII. Panic At Dippleford Admiral IX. Disaster At Temple Colney

  BOOK VI.

  _Of Paradise Lost and Found._

  I. Mrs. Major Bids For Paradise II. Mrs. Major Finds The Lock III. Mrs. Major Gets The Key IV. George Has A Shot At Paradise V. Of Twin Cats: Of Ananias And Of Sapphira VI. Agony In Meath Street VII. Mr. William Wyvern In Meath Street VIII. Abishag The Shunamite In Meath Street IX. Excursions In A Newspaper Office X. A Perfectly Splendid Chapter

  _Last Shots from the Bridge_

  THE AUTHOR'S ADVERTISEMENT OF HIS NOVEL.

  This book has its title from that dashing sentiment, "Once aboard thelugger and the girl is mine!" It is not to be read by those who in theirnovels would have the entertainment of characters that are brilliant orwealthy, noble of birth or admirable of spirit. Such have no place inthis history. There is a single canon of novel-writing that we havesedulously kept before us in making this history, and that is the lawwhich instructs the novelist to treat only of the manner of persons withwhom he is well acquainted. Hence our characters are commonplace folks.We have the acquaintance of none other than commonplace persons, becausenone other than commonplace persons will have acquaintance with us.

  And there are no problems in this history, nor is the reader to betickled by any risks taken with nice deportment. This history may bekept upon shelves that are easily accessible. It is true that you willbe invited to spend something of a night in a lady's bedroom, but thematter is carried through with circumspection and dispatch. There shallnot be a blush.

  Now, it is our purpose in this advertisement so clearly to give you themanner of our novel that without further waste of time you may foregothe task of reading so little as a single chapter if you consider thatmanner likely to distress you. Hence something must be said touching thestyle.

  We cannot see (to make a start) that the listener or the reader of astory should alone have the right to fidget as he listens or reads; tocome and go at his pleasure; to interrupt at his convenience. Somethingof these privileges should be shared by the narrator; and in thishistory we have taken them. You may swing your legs or divert yourattention as you read; but we too must be permitted to swing our legsand slide off upon matters that interest us, and that indirectly arerelevant to the history. Life is not compounded solely of action. Onecannot rush breathless from hour to hour. And, since the novel aims toape life, the reader, if the aim be true, cannot rush breathless frompage to page. We can at least warrant him he will not here.

  These are the limitations of our history; and we admit them to beconsiderable. Upon the other hand, the print is beautifully clear.

  * * * * *

  As touching the title we have chosen, this was not come by at the costof any labour. Taken, as we have told, from that dashing sentiment,"Once aboard the lugger and the girl is mine!" it is a label that mightbe applied to all novels. It is a generic title for all modern novels,since there is not one of these but in this form or that sets out thepursuit of his mistress by a man or his treatment of her when he hasclapped her beneath hatches. This is a notable matter. The novelistwrites under the influences and within the limitations of his age, andthe modern novelist correctly mirrors modern life when he presents womanas for man's pursuit till he has her, and for what treatment he may willwhen he captures her. The position is deplorable, is productive of amillion wrongs, and, happily, is slowly changing; but that it existsis clear upon the face of our social existence, and is even advertisedbetween the sexes in love: "You are mine" the man says, and means it. "Iam yours" the woman declares, and, fruit of generations of dependence,freely, almost involuntarily, gives herself.

  But of this problem (upon which we could bore you to distraction) weare nothing concerned in our novel. Truly we offer you the pursuit ofa girl; but my Mary would neither comprehend this matter nor wish tobe other than her George's. From page 57 she waves to us; let us hurryalong.

  _.... Who so will stake his lot, Impelled thereto by nescience or whim, Cupidity or innocence or not, On Chance's colours, let men pray for him._ RALPH HODGSON.

  BOOK I.

  Of George.

  CHAPTER I.

  Excursions In A Garden.

  I.

  Mr. Christopher Marrapit is dozing in a chair upon the lawn; his darlingcat, the Rose of Sharon, is sleeping on his lap; stiffly beside him sitsMrs. Major, his companion--that masterly woman.

  As we approach to be introduced, it is well we should know something ofMr. Marrapit. The nervous business of adventuring into an assembly ofstrangers is considerably modified by having some knowledge of the firstwe shall meet. We feel more at home; do not rush upon subjects which aredistasteful to that person, or of which he is ignorant; absorb somethingof the atmosphere of the party during our exchange of pleasantries withhim; and, warmed by this feeling, with our most attractive charm ofmanner are able to push among the remainder of our new friends.

  Unhappily, the friendly chatter of the neighbourhood, which shouldsupply us with something of the character of a resident, is quitelacking at Paltley Hill in regard to Mr. Marrapit. Mr. Marrapitrarely moves out beyond the fine wall that encircles Herons' Holt,his residence; with Paltley Hill society rarely mixes. The vicar,with something of a frown, might tell us that to his divers parochialsubscription lists Mr. Marrapit has consistently, and churlishly,refused to give a shilling. Professor Wyvern's son, Mr. William Wyvern,has been heard to say that Mr. Marrapit always reminded him "of oneof the minor prophets--shaved." Beyond this--and how little helpful itis!--Paltley Hill society can give us nothing.

  In a lower social grade of the district, however, much might be learned.In the kitchens, the cottages, and the bar-parlours of Paltley Hill, Mr.Mar
rapit is considerably discussed. Nicely mannered as we are,servants' gossip concerning one in our own station of life is naturallydistasteful to us. At the same time it is essential to our ease on beingintroduced that we should know something of this gentleman. Assuringourselves, therefore, that we shall not be prejudiced by cheap chatter,let us hear what the kitchens, the cottages, and the bar-parlours haveto say.

  Let it, at least, be written down; we shall know how to value suchstuff.

  Material for this gossip, then, is brought into the kitchens, thecottages, and the bar-parlours by Mr. Marrapit's domestic staff.

  Mrs. Armitage, his cook, has given tales of his "grimness" to thecottages where her comfortable presence is welcomed on Sunday andThursday afternoons. She believes, however, that he must be a "religiousgentleman," because (so she says) "he talks like out of the Bible."

  This would seem to bear out Mr. William Wyvern's allusion to the minorprophet element of his character.

  It is the habit of Clara and Ada, his maids, squeezing at the gate frompositions dangerous to modesty into which their ardent young men havethrust them--it is their habit, thus placed, to excuse themselvesfrom indelicate embraces by telling alarming tales of Mr. Marrapit's"carrying on" should they be late. He is a "fair old terror," they say.

  The testimony of Mr. Fletcher, his gardener, gloomy over his beer inthe bar-parlours, seems to support the "stinginess" that the vicar hasdetermined in Mr. Marrapit's character. Mr. Fletcher, for example, haslugubriously shown what has to be put up with when in the service of aman who had every inch of the grounds searched because a threepennybit had been dropped. "It's 'ard--damn 'ard," Mr Fletcher said on thatoccasion. "I'm a gardener, I am; not a treasure-'unter." Murmurs ofsympathy chorused endorsement of this view.

  Finally there are the words of Frederick, son of Mrs. Armitage, andassistant to Fletcher, whose pleasure it is to set on end the touzledhair of the youth of Paltley Hill by obviously exaggerated stories ofMr. Marrapit's grim rule.

  "'E's a tryant," Frederick has said.

  Such is an epitome of the kitchen gossip concerning Mr. Marrapit; it iswholesome to be away from such tattling, and personally to approach thelawn whereon its subject sits.

  II.

  This lawn, a delectable sight on this fine July afternoon, is set aboutwith wire netting to a height of some six feet. By the energies of Mr.Fletcher and Frederick the sward is exquisitely trimmed and rolled; andtheir labours join with the wire netting to make the lawn a safe andpleasant exercise ground for Mr. Marrapit's cats.

  Back in the days of Mr. Marrapit's first occupancy of Herons' Holt,this man was a mighty amateur breeder of cats, and a rare army of catspossessed. Regal cats he had, queenly cats, imperial neuter cats; bluecats, grey cats, orange cats, and white cats--cats for which nothing wastoo good, upon which too much money could not be spent nor too much lovebe lavished. Latterly, with tremendous wrenchings of the heart, he haddisbanded this galaxy of cats. Changes in his household were partlythe cause of this step. The coming of his nephew, George, had seriouslyupset the peaceful routine of existence which it was his delight tolead; and a reason even more compelling was the gradual alteration inhis attitude towards his hobby. This man perceived that the fancier'seye with which he regarded his darlings was becoming so powerful as torender his lover's eye in danger of being atrophied. The fancier'seye was lit by the brain--delighted only in "points," in perfection ofspecimen; the lover's eye was fed by the heart--glowed, not with prideover breed, but with affection for cats as cats. And Mr. Marrapitrealised that for affection he was coming to substitute pride--thathe was outraging the animals he loved by neglecting the less admirablespecimens for those perfectly moulded; that even these perfect types hewas abusing by his growing craze for breeding; polygamy in cats, he cameto believe, desecrated and eventually destroyed their finer feelings.

  Therefore--and the coming of his nephew George quickened hisdetermination--Mr. Marrapit dispersed his stud (the word had becomeabhorrent to him), keeping only four exquisite favourites, of whichthe Rose of Sharon--that perfect orange cat, listed when shown at theprohibitive figure of 1000 pounds, envy and despair of every cat-loverin Great Britain and America--was apple of his eye, joy of hisexistence.

  It was the resolve to keep but these four exquisite creatures thatencompassed the arrival in Mr. Marrapit's household of Mrs. Major, nowseated beside him upon the lawn--that masterly woman. The fine cat-housewas pulled down, the attendant dismissed. A room upon the ground floor,having a southern aspect, was set apart as bed-chamber and exclusiveapartment for the four favourites, and Mr. Marrapit sought about forsome excellent person into whose care they might be entrusted. Theirfeeding, their grooming, constant attention to their wants and the solecare of their chamber, should be this person's duties, and it was notuntil a point some way distant in this history that Mr. Marrapit ceaseddaily to congratulate himself upon his selection.

  Mrs. Major, that masterly woman, was a distressed gentlewoman. The deathof her husband, a warehouse clerk, by acute alcoholic poisoning, seemsto have given her her first chance of displaying those strong qualitieswhich ultimately became her chief characteristic. And she was of thoseto whom plan of action comes instantly upon the arrival of opportunity.With lightning rapidity this woman welded chance and action; withunflagging energy and with dauntless perseverance used the powerfulweapon thus contrived.

  The case of her husband's death may be instanced. Her hystericaldistress on the day of the funeral (a matter that would haveconsiderably surprised the late Mr. Major) was exchanged on thefollowing morning for acute physical distress resulting from the meansby which, overnight, she had tried to assuage her grief. Noticing, asshe dressed, the subdued and martyrlike air that her face wore, noticingalso her landlady's evident sympathy with the gentle voice and mannerwhich her racking head caused her to adopt, Mrs. Major saw at oncethe valuable aid to her future which the permanent wearing of thesecharacteristics might be. From that moment she took up the role ofdistressed gentlewoman--advertised by tight-fitting black, by littlesighs, and by precise, subdued voice,--and in this guise soughtemployment at an Agency. The agency sent her to be interviewed byMr. Marrapit. Ushered into the study, she, in a moment of masterlyinspiration, murmured "The sweet! Ah, the sweet!" when viciouslyscratched by the Rose of Sharon, and upon those words walked directly into Mr. Marrapit's heart.

  He required a lady--a _lady_ (Mrs. Major smiled deprecatingly) whoshould devote herself to his cats. Did Mrs. Major like cats? Ah, sir,she adored cats; her late husband--Words, at the recollection, failedher. She faltered; touched an eye with her handkerchief; wanly smiledwith the resigned martyrdom of a true gentlewoman.

  As so-often in this life, the unspoken word was more powerful thanmightiest eloquence. Mr. Marrapit is not to be blamed for the inferencehe drew. He pictured the dead Mr. Major a gentleman sharing with hiswife a passion for cats; by memory of which fond trait his widow'sdevotion to the species would be yet further enhanced, would behallowed.

  There is the further thought in this connection that once more, as sooften in this life, the unspoken word had saved the lie direct. Onceonly, in point of fact, had Mrs. Major seen her late husband directlyoccupied with a cat, and the occasion had been the cause of theirvacating their lodgings in Shepherd's Bush precisely thirty minuteslater. Mr. Major, under influence of his unfortunate malady, withsavage foot had sped the landlady's cat down a flight of stairs; and thelandlady had taken the matter in peculiarly harsh spirit.

  All this, however, lay deeply hidden beneath Mrs. Major's unspoken word.The vision of a gentle Mr. Major that Mr. Marrapit conjured sealedthe liking he had immediately taken to Mrs. Major, and thus was sheinstalled.

  The masterly woman, upon this July afternoon, desisted from hercrocheting; observed in the dozing figure beside her signs of movement;turned to it, ready for speech.

  This she saw. From the reluctant rays of a passing sun a white silkhandkerchief protected a nicely polished head--a little bumpy, fringedwith soft white h
air. Beneath the head a long face, sallow of hue; ineither cheek a pit; between them a dominating nose carrying eyeglasses.A long, spare body in an alpaca coat; long thin legs; brown moroccoslippers without heels--upon the lap the peerless Rose of Sharon.

  "Time for the Rose to go in," Mrs. Major softly suggested.

  "The Rose," said Mr. Marrapit, passing a hand gently over the creature'sexquisite form, "is, I fear, still ailing. Her sleep is troubled; sheshivers. Her appetite?"

  "It is still poorly." The expression was that of a true distressedgentlewoman.

  "She has need," Mr. Marrapit said, "of the most careful attention, ofthe most careful dieting. Tend her. Tempt her. Take her."

  "I will, Mr. Marrapit." Mrs. Major gathered the Rose against her bosom."You will not stay long? It is growing chilly."

  "I shall take a brief stroll. I am perturbed concerning the Rose."

  "Let me bring you a cap, Mr. Marrapit."

  "Unnecessary. Devote yourself, I pray, to the Rose. I am anxious.Nothing could console me should any evil thing come upon her. I amapprehensive. I look to you. I will take a stroll."

  Outside the wire fence Mr. Marrapit and Mrs. Major parted. The masterlywoman glided swiftly towards the house; Mr. Marrapit, with bent head,passed thoughtfully along an opposite path.

  And immediately the sleeping garden awoke to sudden activity.

  III.

  First to break covert was Frederick, Mr. Fletcher's assistant.Abnormally steeped in vice for one so young (this wretched boy wasbut fourteen), with the coolness of a matured evil-doer Frederickextinguished his cigarette-end by pressing it against his boot-heel;dropped it amongst other ends, toilsomely collected, in a tin box;placed the box in its prepared hole; covered this with earth and leaves;hooked a basket of faded weeds upon his arm, and so appeared in Mr.Marrapit's path with bent back, diligently searching.