The Young Trawler
“I have brought mamma to see you, Kate—the Misses Seaward, mamma; you have often heard me speak of them.”
“Yes, dear, and I have much pleasure in making the Misses Seaward’s acquaintance. My daughter is very fond of you, ladies, I know, and the little puss has brought me here by way of a surprise, I suppose, for we came out to pay a very different kind of visit. She—”
“Oh! but mamma,” hastily exclaimed Ruth, who saw that her mother, whom she had hitherto kept in ignorance of the circumstances of the poor ladies, was approaching dangerous ground, “our visit here has to do with—with the people we were speaking about. I have come,” she added, turning quickly to Miss Jessie, “to transact a little business with you—about those poor people, you remember, whom you were so sorry for. Mamma will be glad to hear what we have to say about them. Won’t you, mamma?”
“Of course, of course, dear,” replied Mrs Dotropy, who, however, experienced a slight feeling of annoyance at being thus dragged into a preliminary consideration of the affairs of poor people before paying a personal visit to them. Being good-natured, however, and kind, she submitted gracefully and took note, while chairs were placed round the table for this amateur Board, that ladies with moderate means—obviously very moderate—appeared to enjoy their afternoon tea quite as much as rich people. You see, it never entered into Mrs Dotropy’s mind—how could it?—that what she imagined to be “afternoon tea” was dinner, tea, and supper combined in one meal, beyond which there lay no prospective meal, except what one penny might purchase.
With a mysterious look, and a gleam of delight in her eyes, Ruth drew forth a well-filled purse, the contents of which, in shillings, sixpences, and coppers, she poured out upon the tea-table.
“There,” she said triumphantly, “I have collected all that myself, and I’ve come to consult you how much of it should be given to each, and how we are to get them to take it.”
“How kind of you, Ruth!” exclaimed Kate and Jessie Seaward, gazing on the coin with intense, almost miserly satisfaction.
“Nonsense! it’s not kind a bit,” responded Ruth; “if you knew the pleasure I’ve had in gathering it, and telling the sad story of the poor people; and then, the thought of the comfort it will bring to them, though it is so little after all.”
“It won’t appear little in their eyes, Ruth,” said Kate, “for you can’t think how badly off some of them are. I assure you when Jessie and I think of it, as we often do, it makes us quite miserable.”
Poor Misses Seaward! In their sympathy with the distress of others they had quite forgotten, for the moment, their own extreme poverty. They had even failed to observe that their own last penny had been inadvertently but hopelessly mingled with the coin which Ruth had so triumphantly showered upon the table.
“I’ve got a paper here with the name of each,” continued the excited girl, “so that we may divide the money in the proportions you think best. That, however, will be easy, but I confess I have puzzled my brain in vain to hit on a way to get poor Bella Tilly to accept charity.”
“That will be no difficulty,” said Jessie, “because we won’t offer her charity. She has been knitting socks for sale lately, so we can buy these.”
“Oh! how stupid I am,” cried Ruth, “the idea of buying something from her never once occurred to me. We’ll buy all her socks—yes, and put our own price on them too; capital!”
“Who is Bella Tilly?” asked Mrs Dotropy.
“A young governess,” replied Jessie, “whose health has given way. She is an orphan—has not, I believe, a relative in the whole world—and has been obliged to give up her last situation, not only because of her health, but because she was badly treated.”
“But how about poor Mr Garnet the musician?” resumed Ruth, “has he anything to sell?”
“I think not,” answered Kate; “the sweet sounds in which he deals can now be no longer made since the paralytic stroke rendered his left arm powerless. His flute was the last thing he had to sell, and he did not part with it until hunger compelled him; and even then only after the doctors had told him that recovery was impossible. But I daresay we shall find some means of overcoming his scruples. He has relatives, but they are all either poor or heartless, and between the two he is starving.”
Thus, one by one, the cases of those poor ones were considered until all Ruth’s money was apportioned, and Mrs Dotropy had become so much interested, that she added a sovereign to the fund, for the express benefit of Bella Tilly. Thereafter, Ruth and her mother departed, leaving the list and the pile of money on the table, for the sisters had undertaken to distribute the fund. Before leaving, however, Ruth placed a letter in Kate’s hand, saying that it had reference to an institution which would interest them.
“Now isn’t that nice?” said Kate, sitting down with a beaming smile, when their visitors had gone, “so like Ruth. Ah! if she only knew how much we need a little of that money. Well, well, we—”
“The tea is quite cold,” interrupted Jessie, “and the fire has gone out!”
“Jessie!” exclaimed Kate with a sudden look of solemnity—“the penny!”
Jessie looked blankly at the table, and said— “Gone!”
“No, it is there,” said Kate.
“Yes, but Ruth, you know, didn’t count the money till she came here, and so did not detect the extra penny, and we forgot it. Every farthing there has been apportioned on that list and must be accounted for. I couldn’t bear to take a penny out of the sum, and have to tell Ruth that we kept it off because it was ours. It would seem so mean, for she cannot know how much we need it. Besides, from which of the poor people’s little stores could we deduct it?”
This last argument had more weight with Kate than the others, so, with a little sigh, she proceeded to open Ruth’s letter, while Jessie poured out a cup of cold tea, gazing pathetically the while at the pile of money which still lay glittering on the table.
Ruth’s letter contained two 5 pounds Bank of England notes, and ran as follows:—
“Dearest Jessie and Kate,—I sent your screen to the institution for the sale of needlework, where it was greatly admired. One gentleman said it was quite a work of genius! a lady, who seemed to estimate genius more highly than the gentleman, bought it for 10 pounds, which I now enclose. In my opinion it was worth far more. However, it is gratifying that your first attempt in this way has been successful.
“Your loving Ruth.”
“Loving indeed!” exclaimed Kate in a tremulous voice.
Jessie appeared to have choked on the cold tea, for, after some ineffectual attempts at speech, she retired to the window and coughed.
The first act of the sisters, on recovering, was to double the amount on Ruth’s list of poor people, and to work out another sum in short division on the back of an old letter.
“Why did you deceive me, dear?” said Mrs Dotropy, on reaching the street after her visit. “You said you were going with me to see poor people, in place of which you have taken me to hear a consultation about poor people with two ladies, and now you propose to return home.”
“The two ladies are themselves very poor.”
“No doubt they are, child, but you cannot for a moment class them with those whom we usually style ‘the poor.’”
“No, mother, I cannot, for they are far worse off than these. Having been reared in affluence, with tenderer feelings and weaker muscles, as well as more delicate health, they are much less able to fight the battle of adversity than the lower poor, and I happen to know that the dear Misses Seaward are reduced just now to the very last extreme of poverty. But you have relieved them, mother.”
“I, child! How?”
“The nursery screen that you bought yesterday by my advice was decorated by Jessie and Kate Seaward, so I thought it would be nice to let you see for yourself how sweet and ‘deserving’ are the poor people whom you have befriended!”
Chapter Three.
Introduces Consternation to A Delicate Household
The day following that on which Mrs Dotropy and Ruth had gone out to visit “the poor,” Jessie and Kate Seaward received a visit from a man who caused them no little anxiety—we might almost say alarm. He was a sea-captain of the name of Bream.
As this gentleman was rather eccentric, it may interest the reader to follow him from the commencement of the day on which we introduce him.
But first let it be stated that Captain Bream was a fine-looking man, though large and rugged. His upper lip and chin were bare, for he was in the habit of mowing those regions every morning with a blunt razor. To see Captain Bream go through this operation of mowing when at sea in a gale of wind was a sight that might have charmed the humorous, and horrified the nervous. The captain’s shoulders were broad, and his bones big; his waistcoat, also, was large, his height six feet two, his voice a profound bass, and his manner boisterous but hearty. He was apt to roar in conversation, but it was in a gale of wind that you should have heard him! In such circumstances, the celebrated bull of Bashan would have been constrained to retire from his presence with its tail between its legs. When we say that Captain Bream’s eyes were kind eyes, and that the smile of his large mouth was a winning smile, we have sketched a full-length portrait of him,—or, as painters might put it, an “extra-full-length.”
Well, when Captain Bream, having mown his chin, presented himself in public, on the morning of the particular day of which we write, he appeared to be in a meditative mood, and sauntered slowly, with the professional gait of a sailor, through several narrow streets near London Bridge. His hands were thrust into his coat-pockets, and a half humorous, half perplexed expression rested on his face. Evidently something troubled him, and he gave vent to a little of that something in deep tones, being apt to think aloud as he went along in disjointed sentences.
“Very odd,” he murmured, “but that girl is always after some queer—well, no matter. It’s my business to—but it does puzzle me to guess why she should want me to live in such an out-o’-the-way—however, I suppose she knows, and that’s enough for me.”
“Shine yer boots, sir?” said a small voice cutting short these broken remarks.
“What?”
“Shine yer boots, sir, an’ p’raps I can ’elp yer to clear up yer mind w’en I’m a doin’ of it.”
It was the voice of a small shoeblack, whose eyes looked wistful.
The captain glanced at his boots; they wanted “shining” sadly, for the nautical valet who should have attended to such matters had neglected his duty that morning.
“Where d’ee live, my lad?” asked the captain, who, being large-hearted and having spent most of his life at sea, felt unusual interest in all things terrestrial when he chanced to be on shore.
“I live nowheres in par-tickler,” answered the boy.
“But where d’ee sleep of a night?”
“Vell, that depends. Mostly anywheres.”
“Got any father?”
“No, sir, I hain’t; nor yet no mother—never had no fathers nor mothers, as I knows on, an’ wot’s more, I don’t want any. They’re a chancey lot, is fathers an’ mothers—most of ’em. Better without ’em altogether, to my mind. Tother foot, sir.”
Looking down with a benignant smile at this independent specimen of humanity, the captain obeyed orders.
“D’ee make much at this work now, my lad?” asked the captain.
“Not wery much, sir. Just about enough to keep soul an’ body together, an’ not always that. It was on’y last veek as I was starvin’ to that extent that my soul very nigh broke out an’ made his escape, but the doctor he got ’old of it by the tail an’ ’eld on till ’e indooced it to stay on a bit longer. There you are, sir; might shave in ’em!”
“How much to pay?”
“Vell, gen’lemen usually gives me a penny, but that’s in or’nary cases. Ven I has to shine boots like a pair o’ ships’ boats I looks for suthin’ hextra—though I don’t always get it!”
“There you are, my lad,” said the captain, giving the boy something “hextra,” which appeared to satisfy him. Thereafter he proceeded to the Bridge, and, embarking on one of the river steamers, was soon deposited at Pimlico. Thence, traversing St. George’s Square, he soon found himself in the little street in which dwelt the Misses Seaward. He looked about him for some minutes and then entered a green-grocer’s shop, crushing his hat against the top of the door-way.
Wishing the green-grocer good-morning he asked if lodgings were to be had in that neighbourhood.
“Well, yes, sir,” he replied, “but I fear that you’d find most of ’em rather small for a man of your size.”
“No fear o’ that,” replied the captain with a loud guffaw, which roused the grocer’s cat a little, “I’m used to small cabins, an’ smaller bunks, d’ee see, an’ can stow myself away easy in any sort of hole. Why, I’ve managed to snooze in a bunk only five foot four, by clewin’ up my legs—though it wasn’t comfortable. But it’s not the size I care about so much as the character o’ the landlady. I like tidy respectable people, you see—havin’ bin always used to a well-kept ship.”
“Ah! I know one who’ll just suit you. Up at the other end o’ the street. Two rooms kept by a young widow who—”
“Hold hard there,” interrupted the captain; “none o’ your young widows for me. They’re dangerous. Besides, big as I am, I don’t want two rooms to sleep in. If you know of any old maid, now, with one room—that’s what would suit me to a tee; an easy-going sort o’ woman, who—”
“I know of two elderly ladies,” interrupted the green-grocer, thoughtfully; “they’re sisters, and have got a small room to let; but—but—they’re delicate sort o’ creeters, you know; have seen better days, an’ are raither timid, an’ might want a female lodger, or a man who—who—”
“Out with it,” interrupted the captain, “a man who is soft-spoken and well-mannered—not a big noisy old sea-horse like me! Is that what you would say?”
“Just so,” answered the green-grocer with an amiable nod.
“What’s the name of the sisters?”
“Seaward.”
“Seaward! eh!” exclaimed the captain in surprise. “That’s odd, now, that a seafarin’ man should be sent to seaward for his lodgin’s, even when he gets on shore. Ha! ha! I’ve always had a leanin’ to seaward. I’ll try the sisters. They can only tell me to ’bout ship, you know, and be off on the other tack.”
And again the captain gave such boisterous vent to his mirth that the green-grocer’s cat got up and walked indignantly away, for, albeit well used to the assaults of small boys, it apparently could not stand the noise of this new and bass disturber of the peace.
Having ascertained that the Misses Seaward dwelt above the shop in which he stood, Captain Bream went straight up-stairs and rapped heavily at their door.
Now, although the sisters had been gradually reduced to the extreme of poverty, they had hitherto struggled successfully against the necessity of performing what is known as the “dirty work” of a house. By stinting themselves in food, working hard at anything they succeeded in getting to do, and mending and re-mending their garments until it became miraculous, even to themselves, how these managed to hang together, they had, up to that period in their history, managed to pay to a slender little girl, out of their slender means, a still more slender salary for coming night and morning to clean their grate, light their fire, carry out their ashes, brush their boots, wash their door-steps, and otherwise perform work for which the sisters were peculiarly unfitted by age, training, and taste. This girl’s name was Liffie Lee. She was good as far as she went but she did not go far. Her goodness was not the result of principle. She had no principle; did not know what the word meant, but she had a nature, and that nature was soft, unselfish, self-oblivious,—the last a blessing of incalculable price!
It was Liffie Lee who responded to Captain Bream’s knock. She was at the time about to leave the house in undisturbed possession of its owners—or rather, occupiers.
“Does a Miss Seaward live here?”
It was a dark passage, and Liffie Lee almost quaked at the depth and metallic solemnity of the voice, as she glanced up at the spot where it appeared to come from.
“Yes, sir.”
“May I see her?”
“I—I’ll see, sir, if you’ll wait outside, sir.”
She gently yet quickly shut the door in the captain’s face, and next moment appeared in the little parlour with a flushed face and widely open eyes.
The biggest man she had ever seen, or heard, she said, wanted to see Miss Seaward.
Why did he want to see her and what was his name?
She didn’t know, and had omitted to ask his name, having been so frightened that she had left him at the door, which she had shut against him.
“An’, please, Miss,” continued Liffie, in a tone of suppressed eagerness, “if I was you I’d lock the parlour door in case he bu’sts in the outer one. You might open the winder an’ screech for the pleece.”
“Oh! Liffie, what a frightened thing you are,” remonstrated Jessie, “go and show the man in at once.”
“Oh! no, Miss,” pleaded Liffie, “you’d better ’ave ’im took up at once. You’ve no notion what dreadful men that sort are. I know ’em well. We’ve got some of ’em where we live, and—and they’re awful!”
Another knock at this point cut the conversation short, and Kate herself went to open the door.
“May I have a word with Miss Seaward?” asked the captain respectfully.
“Ye’es, certainly,” answered Kate, with some hesitation, for, although reassured by the visitor’s manner, his appearance and voice alarmed her too. She ushered him into the parlour, however, which was suddenly reduced to a mere bandbox by contrast with him.
Being politely asked to take a chair, he bowed and took hold of one, but on regarding its very slender proportions—it was a cane chair—he smiled and shook his head. The smile did much for him.
“Pray take this one,” said Jessie, pointing to the old arm-chair, which was strong enough even for him, “our visitors are not usually such—such—”
“Thumping walruses! out with it, Miss Seaward,” said the captain, seating himself—gently, for he had suffered in this matter more than once during his life—“I’m used to being found fault with for my size.”
“Pray do not imagine,” said Jessie, hastening to exculpate herself, “that I could be so very impolite as—as to—”
“Yes, yes, I know that,” interrupted the captain, blowing his nose—and the familiar operation was in itself something awful in such a small room—“and I am too big, there’s no doubt about that however, it can’t be helped. I must just grin and bear it. But I came here on business, so we’ll have business first, and pleasure, if you like, afterwards.”
“You may go now,” said Kate at this point to Liffie Lee, who was still standing transfixed in open-mouthed amazement gazing at the visitor.
With native obedience and humility the child left the room, though anxious to see and hear more.
“You have a furnished room to let I believe, ladies,” said the captain, coming at once to the point.
Jessie and Kate glanced at each other. The latter felt a strong tendency to laugh, and the former replied:—
“We have, indeed, one small room—a very small room, in fact a mere closet with a window in the roof,—which we are very anxious to let if possible to a lady—a—female. It is very poorly furnished, but it is comfortable, and we would make it very cheap. Is it about the hiring of such a room that you come?”
“Yes, madam, it is,” said the captain, decisively.
“But is the lady for whom you act,” said Jessie, “prepared for a particularly small room, and very poorly furnished?”
“Yes, she is,” replied the captain with a loud guffaw that made the very windows vibrate; “in fact I am the lady who wants the room. It’s true I’m not very lady-like, but I can say for myself that I’ll give you less trouble than many a lady would, an’ I don’t mind the cost.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Miss Seaward with a mingled look of amusement and perplexity which she did not attempt to conceal, while Kate laughed outright; “why, sir, the room is not much, if at all, longer than yourself.”
“No matter,” returned the captain, “I’m nowise particular, an’ I’ve been recommended to come to you; so here I am, ready to strike a bargain if you’re agreeable.”
“Pray, may I ask who recommended you?” said Jessie.
The seaman looked perplexed for a moment.
“Well, I didn’t observe his name over the door,” he said, “but the man in the shop below recommended me.”
“Oh? the green-grocer!” exclaimed both ladies together, but they did not add what they thought, namely, that the green-grocer was a very impertinent fellow to play off upon them what looked very much like a practical joke.
“Perhaps the best way to settle the matter,” said Kate, “will be to show the gentleman our room. He will then understand the impossibility.”
“That’s right,” exclaimed the captain; rising—and in doing so he seemed about to damage the ceiling—“let’s go below, by all means, and see the cabin.”
“It is not down-stairs,” remarked Jessie, leading the way; “we are at the top of the house here, and the room is on a level with this one.”
“So much the better. I like a deck-cabin. In fact I’ve bin used to it aboard my last ship.”
On being ushered into the room which he wished to hire, the sailor found himself in an apartment so very unsuited to his size and character that even he felt slightly troubled.
“It’s not so much the size that bothers me,” he said, stroking his chin gently, “as the fittings.”
There was some ground for the seaman’s perplexity, for the closet in which he stood, apart from the fact of its being only ten feet long by six broad, had been arranged by the tasteful sisters after the manner of a lady’s boudoir, with a view to captivate some poor sister of very limited means, or, perhaps, some humble-minded and possibly undersized young clerk from the country. The bed, besides being rather small, and covered with a snow-white counterpane, was canopied with white muslin curtains lined with pink calico. The wash-hand stand was low, fragile, and diminutive. The little deal table, which occupied an inconveniently large proportion of the space, was clothed in a garment similar to that of the bed. The one solitary chair was of that cheap construction which is meant to creak warningly when sat upon by light people, and to resolve itself into match-wood when the desecrator is heavy. Two pictures graced the walls—one the infant Samuel in a rosewood frame, the other an oil painting—of probably the first century, for its subject was quite undistinguishable—in a gold slip. The latter was a relic of better days—a spared relic, which the public had refused to buy at any price, though the auctioneer had described it as a rare specimen of one of the old—the very old—masters, with Rembrandtesque proclivities. No chest of drawers obtruded itself in that small chamber, but instead thereof the economical yet provident sisters, foreseeing the importance of a retreat for garments, had supplied a deal box, of which they stuffed the lid and then covered the whole with green baize, thus causing it to serve the double purpose of a wardrobe and a small sofa.
“However,” said Captain Bream, after a brief but careful look round, “it’ll do. With a little cuttin’ and carvin’ here an’ there, we’ll manage to squeeze in, for you must know, ladies, that we sea-farin’ men have a wonderful knack o’ stuffin’ a good deal into small space.”
The sisters made no reply. Indeed they were speechless, and horrified at the bare idea of the entrance of so huge a lodger into their quiet home.
“Look ye here, now,” he continued in a comfortable, self-satisfied tone, as he expanded his great arms along the length of the bed to measure it, “the bunk’s about five foot eight inches long. Well, I’m about six foot two in my socks—six inches short; that’s a difficulty no doubt, but it’s get-over-able this way, we’ll splice the green box to it.”
He grasped the sofa-wardrobe as he spoke, and placed it to the foot of the bed, then embracing the entire mass of mattresses and bedding at the lower end, raised it up, thrust the green box under with his foot, and laid the bedding down on it—thus adding about eighteen inches to the length.