CHAPTER VI.
MY FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE CHART.
"Good day," said Mr. George Goodfellow, nodding affably. "I hope Isee you well."
"Pretty well, thank you, sir," I answered.
"And where might you come from, makin' so bold?"
I told him that I was a boarder at Mr. Stimcoe's.
"Then," said Mr. Goodfellow, taking off his coat and extracting apencil and a two-foot rule from a pocket at the back of hissmall-clothes, "I'm sorry for you. What a female!" He chose out along and flexible plank from a stack laid lengthwise in the alley-wayalong the base of the wall, lifted it, set it on three trestles, andbegan to measure and mark it off. "She's calculated to destroy one'sbelief in human nature, that's what she is! Fairly knocks the giltoff. Sometimes I can't hardly realize that she and Martha belong tothe same sex. Martha is my young woman."
"Yes, sir?"
"Yes. At present she's living in Plymouth, assistant in aham-and-beef shop, as you turn down to the Barbican. That's herconscientiousness, instead of sitting at home and living on herparents. Don't tell me that women--by which I mean some women--ain'tthe equals of men.
"Because," continued Mr. Goodfellow, after a pause, "I know better.Ever been to Plymouth?"
"Yes, sir."
"Live there?"
"No, sir."
He seemed to be disappointed.
"You go past the bottom of Treville Street, and there the shop is,slap in front of you. You can't miss it, because it has aplaster-of-Paris cow in the window, and the proprietor's calledMudge. I go to Plymouth every week on purpose to see her."
"By coach, sir?" I asked, suddenly interested, and eager to comparenotes with him on the Royal Mail and its rivals, the Self-Defence andHighflyer.
"Coach? Not a bit of it. Shank's mare, my boy, every step of theway; and Martha's worth it. That's the best of bein' in love; itmakes you want to do things. By the way," he asked "you ain'tthinkin' to learn the violin, by any chance?"
"No, sir."
"No," he said reflectively. "You wouldn't--not at Stimcoe's.Not, mind you, that I believe in coddling. Nobody ever coddledNelson, and yet what happened?" He shut one eye, put his pencil toit for an imaginary telescope, and took a nautical survey of the backpremises.
"That rain-shute's out of order," he said, addressing Captain Coffin."Give me a shilling to put it right for you, and you'll save yourselfa lot of trouble."
"That's the landlord's affair," answered Captain Coffin, "and I'm notpaying you fippence an' hour to talk.
"But, sir," I put in, "if you walk to Plymouth you must pass thehouse where I live--a low-roofed house about three miles this side ofSt. Germans village, with a thatch on it, and windows opening righton the road, and 'Minden Cottage' painted over the door."
"Know it? Bless my soul, to be sure I know it! Why, the last timebut one I passed that way, taking note that one of the window-hingeswas out of gear, I knocked and asked leave to repair it. A lady withside-curls opened the door, and after the job was done took me intothe parlour an' gave me a jugful of cider over and above the sixpencecharged. I believe she'd have made it a shillin', too, only when Itold her she lived in a very pretty house, and asked if she owned itor rented it, she turned very stiff in her manner. Touchy as tindershe was; and if that comes of being a lady, I'm glad my Martha's moresociable."
"That was Plinny--Miss Plinlimmon, I mean. You didn't catch sight ofmy father--Major Brooks?"
"No, I didn't. But I stopped to pass the time o' day with thelandlord of the Seven Stars Inn, a mile along the road, and there Iheard about 'en. So you're Major Brooks's son? Well, then, by allaccounts you've got a thunderin' good father. Old English gentleman,straight is a ramrod--pays his way, fears God and honours the King--such was the landlord's words; and he told me the cottage, as youcall it, was rented at twenty-five pounds a year, with a walledgarden an' a paddock thrown in, which I call dirt cheap."
"I don't see that it's any business of yours what my father pays forhis house!" said I, my flush of pleasure changing to one ofannoyance.
I glanced round for Captain Coffin's support, but he had walkedindoors, no doubt in despair of Mr. Goodfellow's loquacity.
"No?" queried Mr. Goodfellow. "No, I dare say not; but you just waittill you fall in love. It's a most curious feelin'. First of all itmakes you want to pull off your coat and turn a hand to anything,from breakin' stones to playing the fiddle--it don't matter what, solong as you sweat an' feel you're earnin' money. Why, just take alook at my business card!" He stepped to his coat, pulled one fromhis pocket, and glanced over it proudly: 'George Goodfellow,Carpenter and Decorater--Cabinet Making in all its Branches--Repairsneatly executed--Funerals and Shipping supplied--Practical Valuer,and for Probate--Fire Office claims prepared and adjusted--GoodBerths booked on all the Packets, and guaranteed by personalinspection--Boats built and designed--Instruction in the Violin--Oldinstruments cleaned and repaired, or taken in exchange--Rowboat forhire.' "There, put it in your pocket and take it away with you.I've plenty more in my desk."
"That's what it feels like, bein' in love," continued Mr. Goodfellow."And, next thing, it makes you take a termenjus interest in houses--houses an' furnicher an' the price o' things--right down to butter,as you might say. I never see a house, now--leastways, a house thattakes my fancy--but I want to be measuring it an' planning out thefurnicher, an' the rent, an' where to stow the firewood, an' sittingdown cosy in it along with Martha--in the mind's eyes, as you maysay--one on each side o' the fire, an' making two ends meet. I pityany man that ends a bachelor." He glanced towards the house."By the way, how do you get along with Coffin?"
"He--he seems very kind."
"Tis'n his way with boys as a rule." Mr. Goodfellow tapped hisforehand with the end of his two-foot rule. "Upper story," heannounced.
"You think so?"
"Sure of it. Cracked as a bell. Not," said Mr. Goodfellow, pickingup a saw and making ready to cut the plank lengthwise to hismeasurements--"not that there's any harm in the man, until he getsfoul of the drink. The tale is he gets his money out o' Government--a sort of pension. Was mixed up in the Spithead Mutiny, by oneaccount, an' turned informer; but there's another tale he earned itby some hanky-panky over in Lisbon, when the Royal Family therepacked up traps from the Brazils; and that's the story I favour, for(between you and me) I've seen Portugal money in his possession."
So, indeed, had I. But Captain Coffin himself cut short the talk atthis point by appearing and announcing from the back doorstep that hehad a treat for me if I would come inside.
The treat consisted in a dish of tea--a luxury in those times, rarelyafforded even at Minden Cottage--and a pot of guava-jelly, withCornish cream and a loaf of white, wheaten bread. Such bread, I needscarcely say, with wheat at 140 shillings a quarter, or thereabouts,never graced the table of Copenhagen Academy. But the dulcet,peculiar taste of guava-jelly is what I associate in memory with thatdelectable meal; and to this day I cannot taste the flavour of guavabut I find myself back in Captain Coffin's sitting-room, cutting athird slice from the wheaten loaf, with the corals and shells ofmother-of-pearl winking at me from among the china on the dresser,and Captain Coffin seated opposite, with the silver rings in hisears, and his eyes very white in the dusk and distinct within theirinflamed rims.
"Nothing like tea," he was saying--"nothing like tea to pull a manround from the drink and cock him back like a trigger."
His right hand was at his breast as he spoke. It came out swiftly,as upon a sudden impulse. His left hand closed upon it and partlycovered it for a moment; then the two hands spread apart anddisclosed an oilskin case.
"Brooks!" he whispered hoarsely. "Brooks, look at this!"
His fingers plucked at the oilskin wrapper, uncovered it, unfolded aninner parcel of parchment, and, trembling, spread it out on thetable.
I leaned closer, and I saw a chart of the Island of Mortallone in theBay of Honduras dated MDCCLXXVII. From the scale on the
chart, theisland was some eight to ten miles long in the north-south direction,and perhaps eight miles broad at the widest point. At the north endof the island, around a promontory called Gable Point, there werefive small islands called The Keys. To the south was a wide inletwith a ship seemingly in the act of sailing towards it.The eastward edge of this inlet was labelled Cape Fea and just aroundfrom this, in an easterly direction wa a small cove called Try-AgainInlet. In the sea to the west of the island was drawn a mythicalsea-monster.
Twice, while I leaned across and stared at it, Captain Coffin'sfingers all but closed over the parchment to hide it from me.The afternoon light was falling dim, and I stood up to walk aroundthe edge of the table for a better look. As I pushed back my chairhe clutched his treasure away, and hid it away again in the breast ofhis jumper, at the same moment falling back and passing a hand overhis damp forehead.
"No, no, Brooks! You mustn't think--Only you took me sudden.But my promise I've passed, and my promise I'll stand by.Come to-morrow, lad."
Outside in the back yard I could hear Mr. Goodfellow, the slave oflove, sawing for dear life and Martha.