The Blower of Bubbles Part 8

The ex-seaman who had acted as my guide pulled at his forelock.

"Ay, ay, cap'n!"

"Take this gentleman's things to the guestroom upstairs."

"The cabin to starboard? Werry good, cap'n."

Heavens! such a voice! There were fog, gale, piracy, rum, and combat in it.

"Sindbad," said Norman, in answer to my look, "is one of my indiscretions--like 'Arcadia.' He turned up here one day with such a tale of the sea as would have shamed Robert Louis Stevenson at his best. So far as I can discover, he has been in every naval fight since Aboukir Bay. He's a bit hazy on the Jutland sc.r.a.p, but hints darkly at the possibility of an invasion by Spain. He is convinced that the _Armada_ is only hiding and waiting its time."

In spite of myself, I laughed.

"As he refused to go, I decided to employ him as a man-of-all-work, and, as he appeared to have forgotten his own name, I gave him that of 'Sindbad,' which pleased him as much as me. As a result of my engaging him, the lawn you stand on is the quarter-deck which he never fails to salute. As nearly as I can discover, we are sailing a perpetual voyage--you see by this view that the illusion is possible--and we're living in the imminent danger and hope of an attack by the Spanish. By the way, old man, would you rather go upstairs and clean up? Are you cold sitting there? Sometimes, being so comfortable myself, I forget all about my guests."

I protested, sincerely, that I was quite contented where I was.

"Good!" he smiled. "Now tell me all about London.... I see you were hit twice. From more than a dozen sources I've heard how splendid you were in France."

His voice was so bright, with its old, happy mannerism of rapidity of words, with the occasional slurring rallentando, and his gaiety so infectious, that, under his influence, I felt the clouds about my brain lifting--not only those caused by grief for his helpless condition, but those born of my own black moods which drove sleep from my eyes for nights at a time. I had come determined to be cheerful and to bring encouragement to the invalid, but already I was drinking in the elixir of his spirit and feeling my arteries throb with a kind of ecstasy. His charm was more potent than before.

For a few minutes we chatted about France and the old Westminster boys who had won renown. We talked of many things, and laughed to find that we were still boys.

"By the way," he said, during a momentary lull in the stream of reminiscence, "I must apologize for my wife. She is doing some necessary shopping in Ventnor, but will be back by the next train."

"I heard you were married," I said, but got no further. Delicacy forbade my asking him how his dream of love had become a reality. He must have read the question in my eyes, however, for he offered me his cigarettes, which, with him, was always a prelude to a change in the tone of conversation.

"I did not write to her after I went to France," he said quietly, "because ... well, I've spoken to you before of my sense of intuition--and I knew that mine would be a heavy price to pay. It was not fair to fasten her with a life none too robust at its best, because of a love-fantasy between two children. When I was. .h.i.t, and they broke the news to me that--that this was to be my luck, the one thing that comforted me was the thought that she was free and would not have to share my captivity. By-the-by, Pest, isn't the sea fascinating? It is never the same for two days together."

He was still a Puck, lightening his moods whenever they threatened to hurt the listener with their intensity.

"Pest," he said, after a pause, "she came to me.... When everything was dark, and I was groping blindly for some hand that would start me just a--a little on my path, she came--out of the mists. I urged her to leave me. I argued that she was not fair--and for answer she kissed me.... Pest, it was a moment of such exquisite happiness, a happiness so poignant, that I wish I could have died then. I was never so fit for heaven."

The figure of Sindbad appeared from the house, tugged at its forelock, and disappeared into the garden to trim some shrubs.

"How did you happen to come here?" I asked.

"I had always looked on the island," he said, smiling, "as the only spot in England where a twentieth-century Robinson Crusoe could find a sanctuary from the world, and, by the courtesy of the gentleman who owned the place, I was able to purchase it at a ridiculously low price.

As a matter of fact, he was offered twice the amount quoted to me, but refused because I was a disabled Tommy. We came here strangers, but really the kindness of every one is so great that the ordeal is turning into a privilege. You have no idea, Pest, how extraordinarily sympathetic and courteous these people are."

"I suppose, though," I said softly, "that it is rather--lonely."

"Lonely?" he laughed. "Bless your heart, old boy! talk about a French savant and his _salon_--this place is a positive Mecca for all the distinguished pilgrims on the island. For instance, there is the editor of the _Tribune_--a man who thinks editorially and talks colossally.

He claims that any one who has read Boswell's _Life of Johnson_, Cervantes' _Don Quixote_, and Carlyle's _French Revolution_ is educated. He never reads anything else, but keeps on reading these three in an endless cycle. We have perfectly stupendous arguments that never get anywhere, but utterly exhaust both of us. Then there's the station-master. How many pa.s.sengers boarded the train here when you were coming off?"

"Four, I think."

"Ah, yes; this is Sat.u.r.day--a busy day. Some trains we don't get any, and others just one or two; but in antic.i.p.ation of a rush at some future date, he's invented a scheme of getting tickets out of a drawer, stamped and all complete, by merely pressing a b.u.t.ton. I a.s.sure you it's going to revolutionize the booking systems of the world--we've been working on it for weeks, but so far all we've got is the b.u.t.ton.

The plans are prodigious, though. And the Tommies! Gor blime, Pest!

there's a convalescent home just down the road, and it's a queer day that at least two of the beggars don't come up for a 'jaw' about old times. You talk about your officers' messes and bra.s.s hats; why, it's real life in the ranks. I tell you, Pest, I would rather be the man that coined the word 'Cheerio' than the greatest general the world has seen."

A merchant-s.h.i.+p, still wearing its strange motley of camouflage, sailed past only a couple of miles from sh.o.r.e.

"Look!" whispered Norman, and pointed down the garden.

Sindbad was crouched behind some bushes, surveying the vessel through a dilapidated telescope. After a careful scrutiny, he resumed his labors, shaking his head and muttering darkly to himself.

Norman chuckled hilariously. "He's on the look-out for Spaniards," he said.

"What a villainous telescope!"

"Isn't it? He always has it by him, though. I'll swear you can't see half-a-mile with the blessed thing."

A huge black hound appeared from the direction of the conservatory, and, after the canine manner, expressed his wriggliest delight at the sight of Norman, ending by sitting solemnly beside the chair and laying one paw on the invalid's knee.

"Good-afternoon, Mr. Jones," said Norman.

The dog thumped the ground four times with his tail, and emitted a yawn like the sound of a train emerging from a tunnel.

"Mr. Jones," said I, "changes from cordiality to ennui with rather startling rapidity."

The hound acknowledged his name by a solitary thump, and then groaned with the air of a Stiggins contemplating the wickedness of a Weller.

"What breed is he?" I asked.

"Dog--just dog. He is, if I may say so, the battle-ground of his ancestors. Every breed but that of bull can be traced in him, and each has its moment of ascendancy. Mr. Jones possesses a most remarkable hereditary system."

The subject of our conversation became suddenly tense. A bird had hopped on to the quarter-deck, and was pecking at the ground in a manner that would infuriate any self-respecting dog.

Gathering up his loins, Mr. Jones stalked the intruder to within four yards, and then fell in a heap on the spot--where the bird had been.

After surveying the landscape with a puzzled air, as if to indicate to us that foul work was afloat, he walked to the end of the lawn and gazed thoughtfully at the sea. Having thoroughly demonstrated his indifference as to whether he ever caught a bird or not, he yawned terrifically, and left the scene for the comfort of the kitchen.

XII

And so, partly with banter, but with many moments that were tense with feeling, we talked while the afternoon wore on. Norman was in the midst of some anecdote of either Sindbad or Mr. Jones, when he paused, and a look of delighted antic.i.p.ation lit his countenance.

"That's the whistle," he said. "The train's right on time to-day." He sighed happily, as a lover about to meet his sweetheart after a long absence.

"Sindbad," he cried, "pipe all hands to tea. Tell Mrs. M'Gillicuddy we'll have it in the music-room."

Telescope under his arm, the worthy buccaneer--for I am convinced he sailed under Captain Kidd--shuffled into the house, and the noise of the train could be distinctly heard as it emptied its crowd of one or two at the little station.

"I shall go and open the gate," I said, but he stopped me.

"He is with her, Pest."

"Who?"