CHAPTER FOUR.
DRIFTING ON THE ROCKS.
On the sea-shore, not far from the spot where the brig had been wrecked,Charlie Brooke and Shank Leather walked up and down engaged in earnestconversation soon after the interviews just described.
Very different was the day from that on which the wreck had taken place.It seemed almost beyond possibility that the serene sky above, and thecalm, glinting ocean which rippled so softly at their feet, could beconnected with the same world in which inky clouds and snowy foam androaring billows had but a short time before held high revelry.
"Well, Charlie," said his friend, after a pause, "it was very good ofyou, old boy, and I hope that I'll do credit to your recommendation.The old man seems a decent sort of chap, though somewhat cross-grained."
"He is kind-hearted, Shank; I feel quite sure of that, and hopesincerely that you will get on well with him."
"`With him!'" repeated Leather; "you don't seem to understand that thesituation he is to get for me is _not_ in connection with his ownbusiness, whatever that may be. It is in some other City firm, the nameof which he has not yet mentioned. I can't myself understand why he isso close!"
"Perhaps because he has been born with a secretive nature," suggestedCharlie.
"May be so. However, that's no business of mine, and it doesn't do tobe too inquisitive when a man is offering you a situation of two hundreda year. It would be like looking a gift-horse in the mouth. All I careabout is that I'm to go to London next week and begin work--Why, youdon't seem pleased to hear of my good fortune," continued Leather,turning a sharp look on his friend, who was gazing gravely at the sand,in which he was poking holes with his stick.
"I congratulate you, Shank, with all my heart, and you know it; but--I'msorry to find that you are not to be in connection with Mr Crossleyhimself, for there is more good in him than appears on the surface. Didhe then make no mention of the nature of his own business?"
"None whatever. To say truth, that mysteriousness or secrecy is theonly point about the old fellow's character that I don't like," saidLeather, with a frown of virtuous disapproval. "`All fair andabove-board,' that's my motto. Speak out your mind and fear nothing!"
At these noble sentiments a faint smile, if we may say so, hoveredsomewhere in the recesses of Charlie Brooke's interior, but not thequiver of a muscle disturbed the solemnity of his face.
"The secrecy of his nature seems even to have infected that skipperwith--or rather by--whom he was wrecked," continued Leather, "for when Iasked him yesterday about the old gentleman, he became suddenly silent,and when I pressed him, he made me a rigmarole speech something likethis: `Young man, I make it a rule to know nothin' whatever about mypassengers. As I said only two days past to my missus: "Maggie," saysI, "it's of no use your axin' me. My passengers' business is _their_business, and my business is mine. All I've got to do is to sail myship, an' see to it that I land my passengers in safety."'
"`You made a pretty mess of your business, then, the last trip,' said I,for I was bothered with his obvious determination not to give me anyinformation.
"`Right you are, young man,' said he, `and it would have been a stillprettier mess if your friend Mr Brooke hadn't come off wi' that thereline!'
"I laughed at this and recovered my temper, but I could pump nothingmore out of him. Perhaps there was nothing to pump.--But now tell me,how is it--for I cannot understand--that you refused all offers toyourself? You are as much `out of work' just now as I am."
"That's true, Shank, and really I feel almost as incapable of giving youan answer as Captain Stride himself. You see, during our conversationMr Crossley attributed mean--at all events wrong--motives to me, andsomehow I felt that I _could_ not accept any favour at his hands justthen. I suspect I was too hasty. I fear it was false pride--"
"Ha! ha!" laughed Leather; "`pride!' I wonder in what secret chamber ofyour big corpus your pride lies."
"Well, I don't know. It must be pretty deep. Perhaps it is engrained,and cannot be easily recognised."
"That last is true, Charlie. Assuredly it can't be recognised, for it'snot there at all. Why, if you had been born with a scrap of false prideyou and I could never have been friends--for I hate it!"
Shank Leather, in saying this, had hit the nail fairly on the head,although he had not intelligently probed the truth to the bottom. Infact a great deal of the friendship which drew these young men togetherwas the result of their great dissimilarity of character. They acted oneach other somewhat after the fashion of a well-adjusted piece ofmechanism, the ratchets of selfishness and cog-wheels of vanity in Shankfitting easily into the pinions of good-will and modesty whichcharacterised his friend, so that there was no jarring in theirintercourse. This alone would not, perhaps, have induced the strongfriendship that existed if it had not been coupled with their intimacyfrom childhood, and if Brooke had not been particularly fond of Shank'sinvalid mother, and recognised a few of her good characteristics faintlyreproduced in her son, while Shank fully appreciated in Charlie thatamiable temperament which inclines its happy possessor to sympathisemuch with others, to talk little of self, to believe all things and tohope all things, to the verge almost of infantine credulity.
"Well, well," resumed Charlie, with a laugh, "however that may be, I_did_ decline Mr Crossley's offers, but it does not matter much now,for that same worthy captain who bothered you so much has told me of asituation of which he has the gift, and has offered it to me."
"You don't say so! Is it a good one?"
"Yes, and well paid, I'm told, though I don't know the exact amount ofthe salary yet."
"And have you accepted?"
"I have. Mother agreed, after some demur, that it is better thannothing, so, like you, I begin work in a few days."
"Well now, how strangely things do happen sometimes!" said Leather,stopping and looking out seaward, where the remains of the brig couldstill be distinguished on the rocks that had fixed her doom. "But forthat fortunate wreck and our saving the people in her, you and I mightstill have been whistling in the ranks of the Great Unemployed--And whatsort of a situation is it, Charlie?"
"You will smile, perhaps, when I tell you. It is to act as supercargoof the _Walrus_, which is commanded by Captain Stride himself."
Young Leather's countenance fell. "Why, Charlie," he said, "that meansthat you're going away to sea!"
"I fear it does."
"Soon?"
"In a week or two."
For some little time Leather did not speak. The news fell upon him witha shock of disagreeable surprise, for, apart from the fact that hereally loved his friend, he was somehow aware that there were not manyother young men who cared much for himself--in regard to which he wasnot a little surprised, for it never occurred to him that egotism andselfishness had anything to do with the coolness of his friends, or thatnone but men like our hero, with sweet tempers and self-forgettingdispositions, could by any possibility put up with him.
"Who are the owners of the _Walrus_, Charlie?" he asked, as they turnedinto the lane that led from the beach to the village.
"Withers and Company of London."
"H'm--don't know them. They must be trustful fellows, however, to takea captain into their employ who has just lost his vessel."
"They have not _taken_ him into their employ," said Charlie. "CaptainStride tells me he has been in their service for more than a quarter ofa century, and they exonerate him from all blame in the loss of thebrig. It does seem odd to me, however, that he should be appointed soimmediately to a new ship, but, as you remarked, that's none of mybusiness. Come, I'll go in with you and congratulate your mother andMay on your appointment."
They had reached the door of Shank Leather's house by that time. It wasa poor-looking house, in a poor side street or blind alley of thevillage, the haunt of riotous children during the day-time, and ofmaddening cats at night. Stray dogs now and then invaded the alley,but, for the most part, it was to children and cats that the
region wasgiven over. Here, for the purpose of enabling the proverbial "two ends"to "meet," dwelt a considerable population in houses of diminutive sizeand small accommodation. A few of these were persons who, having "seenbetter days," were anxious to hide their poverty and existence from the"friends" of those better days. There was likewise a sprinkling ofindividuals and families who, having grown callous to the sorrows ofearth, had reached that condition wherein the meeting of the two ends isa matter of comparative indifference, because they never met, and werenever more expected to meet--the blank, annually left gaping, beingfilled up, somehow, by a sort of compromise between bankruptcy, charity,and starvation.
To the second of these the Leather family belonged. They had beenbrought to their sad condition by that prolific source of human misery--the bottle.
To do the family justice, it was only the father who had succumbed. Hehad been a gentleman; he was now a sot. His wife--delicate owing to badtreatment, sorrow, and insufficient nourishment--was, ever had been, andever would be, a lady and a Christian. Owing to the last pricelesscondition she was still alive. It is despair that kills, and despairhad been banished from her vocabulary ever since she had laid down thearms of her rebellion and accepted the Saviour of mankind as her guideand consolation.
But sorrow, suffering, toil had not departed when the demon despair fledaway. They had, however, been wonderfully lightened, and one of thebrightest gleams of hope in her sad life was that she might possibly beused as the means of saving her husband. There were other gleams oflight, however, one of the brightest of them being that May, her onlydaughter, was loving and sympathetic--or, as she sometimes expressed it,"as good as gold." But there was also a very dark spot in her life:Shank, her only son, was beginning to show a tendency to tread in hisfather's steps.
Many golden texts were enshrined in the heart of poor Mrs Leather, andnot a few of these--painted by the hand of May--hung on the walls oftheir little sitting-room, but the word to which she turned her eyes inseasons of profoundest obscurity, and which served her as a sheet-anchorin the midst of the wildest storms, was, "Hope thou in God, for thoushalt _yet_ praise Him." And alongside of that text, whenever shethought of it or chanced to look at it, there invariably flashedanother: "Immanuel, God with us."
May and her mother were alone when the young men entered; the former wasat her lessons, the latter busy with knitting-needles.
Knitting was the means by which Mrs Leather, with constant labour andinexhaustible perseverance, managed to fill up the gap between thebefore-mentioned "two ends," which her dissolute husband failed to drawtogether. She could read or assist May with her lessons, while herdelicate fingers, working below the table, performed miraculousgyrations with steel and worsted. To most male minds, we presume, thisis utterly incomprehensible. It is well not to attempt the descriptionof that which one does not understand. The good lady knitted socks andstockings, and mittens and cuffs, and comforters, and other things, inabsolutely overwhelming quantities, so that the accumulation in thepress in which she stored them was at times quite marvellous. Yet thatpress never quite filled up, owing to the fact that there was anincurable leak in it--a sort of secret channel--through which theproducts of her toil flowed out nearly as fast as she poured them in.
This leak in the worsted press, strange to say, increased wonderfullyjust after the wreck described in a previous chapter, and the rivulet towhich it gave rise flowed in the direction of the back-door of thehouse, emptying itself into a reservoir which always took the form of alittle elderly lady, with a plain but intensely lovable countenance, whohad been, perhaps still was, governess in a family in a neighbouringtown where Mrs Leather had spent some of her "better days." Her namewas Molloy.
Like a burglar Miss Molloy came in a stealthy manner at irregularintervals to the back-door of the house, and swept the press of itscontents, made them up into a bundle of enormous size, and carried themoff on the shoulders of an appropriately disreputable blackguard boy--asShank called him--whom she retained for the purpose. Unlike a burglar,however, Miss Molloy did not "bolt with the swag," but honestly paid foreverything, from the hugest pair of gentlemen's fishing socks to thesmallest pair of children's cuffs.
What Miss Molloy did with this perennial flow of woollen work, whom shecame from, where she went to, who discovered her, and why she did it,were subjects of inquiry which baffled investigation, and alwayssimmered in the minds of Shank and May, though the mind of Mrs Leatherherself seemed to be little if at all exercised by it. At all eventsshe was uncommunicative on the point, and her children's curiosity wasnever gratified, for the mother was obdurate, and, torture being illegalat that time in England, they had no means of compelling disclosure. Itwas sometimes hinted by Shank that their little dog Scraggy--appropriately named!--knew more than he chose to tell about the subject,for he was generally present at the half-secret interviews, and alwaysclosed the scene with a sham but furious assault on the evercontemptuous blackguard boy. But Scraggy was faithful to his trust, andrevealed nothing.
"I can't tell you how glad I am, Mrs Leather, about Shank's goodfortune," said Charlie, with a gentle shake of the hand, which MrCrossley would have appreciated. Like the Nasmyth steam-hammer, whichflattens a ton of iron or gently cracks a hazel-nut, our Herculean herocould accommodate himself to circumstances; "as your son says, it hasbeen a lucky wreck for _us_."
"Lucky indeed for _him_," responded the lady, instantly resuming herknitting, which she generally kept down near her lap, well hidden by thetable, while she looked at her visitor and talked, "but not verypleasant for those who have lost by it."
"Pooh! mother, nobody has lost by it," said Shank in his free-and-easystyle. "The owners don't lose, because of course it was insured; andthe Insurance Companies can't be said to lose, for the value of a smallbrig will be no more felt by them than the losing of a pin would be feltby yourself; and the captain won't lose--except a few sea-garments andthings o' that kind--for he has been appointed to another ship already.By the way, mother, that reminds me that Charlie has also got asituation through this lucky wreck, for Captain Stride feels so gratefulthat he has offered him the situation of supercargo in his new ship."
For once Mrs Leather's knitting-needles came to a sudden stop, and shelooked inquiringly at her young friend. So did May.
"Have you accepted it?"
"Well, yes. I have."
"I'm _so_ sorry," said May; "I don't know what Shank will do withoutyou."
At that moment a loud knocking was heard at the door. May rose to openit, and Mrs Leather looked anxiously at her son.
A savage undertoned growl and an unsteady step told all too plainly thatthe head of the house had returned home.
With sudden interest in worsted fabrics, which he was far from feeling,Charlie Brooke turned his back to the door, and, leaning forward, tookup an end of the work with which the knitter was busy.
"That's an extremely pretty pattern, Mrs Leather. Does it take youlong to make things of the kind?"
"Not long; I--I make a good many of them."
She said this with hesitation, and with her eyes fixed on the doorway,through the opening of which her husband thrust a shaggy dishevelledhead, with dissipation stamped on a countenance which had evidently beenhandsome once.
But Charlie saw neither the husband's head nor the poor wife's gaze, forhe was still bending over the worsted-work in mild admiration.
Under the impression that he had not been observed, Mr Leather suddenlywithdrew his head, and was heard to stumble up-stairs under the guidanceof May. Then the bang of a door, followed by a shaking of theslimly-built house, suggested the idea that the poor man had flunghimself on his bed.
"Shank Leather," said Charlie Brooke, that same night as they strolledon the sea-shore, "you gave expression to some sentiments to-day which Ihighly approved of. One of them was `Speak out your mind, and fearnothing!' I mean to do so now, and expect that you will not be hurt bymy following your advice."
"Well
!" exclaimed Shank, with a dubious glance, for he disliked theseriousness of his friend's tone.
"Your father--" began Charlie.
"Please don't speak about _him_," interrupted the other. "I know allthat you can say. His case is hopeless, and I can't bear to speak aboutit."
"Well, I won't speak about him, though I cannot agree with you that hiscase is hopeless. But it is yourself that I wish to speak about. Youand I are soon to separate; it must be for a good long while--it may befor ever. Now I must speak out my mind before I go. My old playmate,school-fellow, and chum, you have begun to walk in your poor father'sfootsteps, and you may be sure that if you don't turn round all yourhopes will be blasted--at least for this life--perhaps also for thatwhich is to come. Now don't be angry or hurt, Shank. Remember that younot only encouraged me, but advised me to speak out my mind."
"Yes, but I did not advise you to form a false, uncharitable judgment ofyour chum," returned Leather, with a dash of bitterness in his tone. "Iadmit that I'm fond of a social glass, and that I sometimes, thoughrarely, take a little--a very little--more than, perhaps, is necessary.But that is very different from being a drunkard, which you appear toassume that I am."
"Nay, Shank, I don't assume that. What I said was that you are_beginning_ to walk in your dear father's footsteps. No man ever yetbecame a drunkard without _beginning_. And I feel certain that no manever, when beginning, had the most distant intention or expectation ofbecoming a drunkard. Your danger, dear old fellow, lies in your _notseeing_ the danger. You admit that you like a social glass. Shank, Icandidly make the same admission--I like it,--but after seeing yourfather, and hearing your defence, the danger has been so deeplyimpressed on _me_, that from this hour I resolve, God helping me, nevermore to taste a social glass."
"Well, Charlie, you know yourself best," returned his friend airily,"and if you think yourself in so great danger, of course your resolve isa very prudent one; but for myself, I admit that I see no danger, and Idon't feel any particular weakness of will in regard to temptation."
"Ah, Shank, you remind me of an eccentric old lady I have heard of whowas talking with a friend about the difficulties of life. `My dear,'said the friend, `I do find it such a _difficult_ thing to resisttemptation--don't you?' `No,' replied the eccentric old lady, `I don't,for I _never_ resist temptation, I always give way to it!'"
"I can't quite make out how your anecdote applies to me, Charlie."
"Don't you see? You feel no weakness of will in regard to temptationbecause you never give your will an opportunity of resisting it. Youalways give way to it. You see, I am speaking out my mind freely--asyou have advised!"
"Yes, and you take the whole of my advice, and fear nothing, else youwould not risk a quarrel by doing so. But really, my boy, it's of nouse your troubling your head on that subject, for I feel quite safe, andI don't mean to give in, so there's an end on't."
Our hero persevered notwithstanding, and for some time longer sought toconvince or move his friend both by earnest appeal and light pleasantry,but to all appearance without success, although he reduced him tosilence. He left him at last, and went home meditating on the truth ofthe proverb that "a man convinced against his will is of the sameopinion still."