Chapter XVIII: In which we hear something of the Pageant at Lowestoft

The Grand Hotel, Cromer,
August 14th, 1905.

Dear Paddy,--The Pageant at Lowestoft came and went on Saturday last--the occasion of its first representation--and your faithful epistler has departed with it under circumstances which should be made known to you. These were as ridiculous as they were inevitable; but they have left my good cousin in a sad state of mind, and his little wife no less agitated.

I count it nothing less than a tragedy, Paddy, that your friend, Henry Gastonard, who would no more make love to another man’s wife than he would steal the spoons from his table, should twice carry a firebrand into a peaceful house and there extinguish it not at all or but doubtfully. This, none the less, has been my undeserved fate. I quitted Lowestoft, leaving my cousin torn by jealousy concerning Martha and myself. His anger is as absurd as his suspicions; but of both you shall now hear.

To begin with, let me say that I had some fine fun with him on Friday night upon my return from Yarmouth. The talk after dinner chanced to turn upon the ease or difficulty of making money; and, wishful to chaff Arthur, I began to speak of my own intentions. To have heard me you would have said that I had but to lift a finger to make ten thousand a year. I spoke of this scheme and of that, of the financiers I knew and the financiers who wished to know me. I mentioned young Gould casually, and threw in Harry Vanderbilt as though he were a paper-weight; to all of which Arthur listened entranced. His colour alternated between that of the departing rainbow and the newly-imported orange. There were moments when he was at a loss how to address me at all.

“Did you say that you were venturing your own capital in these affairs?” he asked me. The simple fellow, a child would have seen through the question.

“Not a penny of it,” said I, filling my glass with the Marsala, old in bottle, which he buys from a neighbouring grocer for one-and-three; “not a penny of it, Arthur. You must understand that I am bringing the new French motor-cab companies to London, and when the Syndicate has put down two hundred and fifty thousand, there should be some seven or eight for me as negotiatory vendor to begin with; and if they don’t pay me twelve or fifteen hundred a year afterwards to look after their interests, I’m a Dutchman. What I wanted to ask you was just this: Do you think I am wise to take up such a thing as a motor-cab, or would you advise me to stick to the flotation of the new submarine company, in which you know that I have interest? You have great sagacity and perception, and so I put the question to you frankly.”

Upon my word, Paddy, the man’s face was a study when I said this, and it was worth anything to hear him humming and hawing in the very best pulpit manner before he answered me.

“A clergyman knows little of financial affairs,” he remarked, coughing slightly to cover his difficulty. “Undoubtedly, a cab is not a very dignified conveyance, and er--hem, the future of the motor-car is--that is--may be--a dusty one. I should consider the whole question very closely, Henry. There are two sides to it, as to every question.”

“And to every cab, Arthur. Well, I shall take your advice, for, of course, if I don’t do something very soon, you will be having my little lot and driving a four-in-hand to Hurlingham. I don’t mean to let you do that, Arthur. I shall stick to the money; though, if ever you want fifty for parochial uses, don’t forget to tell me.”

He was visibly upset--he is not a man who can hide his feelings. I believe that if I had said the word, he would have consented to a compromise on the spot. But I am an obstinate fool, Paddy, and I feel that I would sooner sleep on the Embankment without a shirt to my back than part with one shilling to this disciple of the Law and the Profits who would spend it so ill.

This badinage was a pretty prelude to what was to come. We were up early next morning, and the streets all a-blowing and a-growing before the fishing boats had come in. You do not know Lowestoft, Paddy, but you will please to understand that there is, beneath the northern cliff, a very pretty stretch of grass land, whereon golfers and others disport themselves. Toward this at eleven o’clock in the morning half the inhabitants and all the visitors wended their way; and here the great battle between the invading Danes and the inhospitable Britons was to take place, directed by my cousin Arthur, who carried a megaphone and took his station upon a watch-tower. As this is not a horsey locality, the most part of us went afoot, and a fine, straggling show of hire-purchase assassins we must have looked to any sane man who had happened upon us at hazard.

Just imagine the narrow, fishy street of a fishy town packed from end to end with twentieth-century monks, romping British maidens, Druid priests, Danes, and Norsemen. Depict a fat grocer waddling along in a tin-pot helmet and a tunic down to his knees. Create for yourself the image of a substantial matron in a frock that looks like a--but you have seen the catalogues of the linen houses and will spare my blushes. Over all wave the flags and the banners. There are a few horsemen--six-and-six the first hour, six shillings afterwards--a great many battle-axes, pikes, and spiked maces. The fishermen, who stare as we pass by, laugh vulgarly. Some of the youths, who are to do the fighting, begin already and need the police to separate them. I observe that the girls are all in a hurry to be carried screaming to the hills and that they rehearse their parts upon any opportunity, even the most trifling.

Such was the beginning of the Pageant at Lowestoft. Never, I suppose, was Arthur Warrington in better form; it was better than any Criterion farce to hear him shouting the stage directions from his watch-tower. Of course, had he been a clever man, he would have engaged some genius from the theatres to have helped him as to the stage management; but he is not a clever man, and chaos followed him to the battle-field. Oh, my dear Paddy, what a joy it was when that bellicose crowd heard him bawling: “Harps to the mound; all the lyres this side; ancient Britons, quick march; Danes ashore!” Could energy and a shrill voice have achieved success, Arthur assuredly would have been crowned there and then with a laurel; but, alas, what are energy and shrillness when your Druid priest is invariably in the refreshment tent and your Danes upset the boat which is bringing them ashore?

You will remember that little Martha had persuaded me to play the part of one of these Scandinavian heroes, and a veritable sea-lion she said I looked when the costumier had finished with me. Though she herself stood for a British matron, I observed that her dress leaned toward the soubrette ideal, and that she proposed an early and satisfying adjournment to the tent wherein ices and other delicacies were vended. In this she was generally imitated. A more desultory battle, a wilder, more nonsensical puppet show, I have never seen upon any field of Europe. Danes playing leap-frog on the sands; Druids chasing each other, and the ladies--with sickle and artificial mistletoe--warriors flirting already when they should have been fighting; trumpeters passing their trumpets round for their neighbours to “have a blow;” monks talking politics and passing each other the morning papers; fat men asking “Where do we go?” stout ladies no less at a loss. My dear Paddy, the hills would have rung with your laughter and the sea given it back to you in roaring harmonies.

I will confess that we got something like order when the battle was done, and that some of the Druidical rites were pretty and imposing. A dance of “early British maidens,” in the afternoon, left footprints on the sands of time; but the attempt of a monk to join in the business came near to ruining it. From this moment onward toward sunset the affair showed some signs of a degeneration which boded ill for the later hours. I found myself without part or place in a disorderly ensemble, and I suggested to Martha that she should be carried off incontinently to the sea; and that we would go for a little row until the multitude had recovered its senses. To this she consented very gracefully, and, a boat being quickly found--for many watermen had come to the place--I put off in it and soon left the madding crowd behind us.

You must admit, Paddy, that there was little harm in this. We rowed in full view of the shore; as a Norseman it was my business thus to act in the presence of a British maiden. In a less romantic mood, I desired to have a little talk with pretty Martha--for none was possible at her house--and to hear exactly what she thought of my own affairs and of my cousin’s interest in them. She is a candid little body and responded immediately to my invitation. I found her no less merry than eloquent, and, to be honest, she was not born for a parson’s wife.

“Arthur thinks he’ll have your fortune,” she said; “he’s buying motor-cars already with it.”

“And you encourage him, Martha?”

“Women always encourage men when they wish to be extravagant in a proper way. But I don’t believe you’ll part with the money--and, to be honest, I hope you won’t.”

“Those are not Arthur’s sentiments.”

“Would they be mine if they were? No man is the better for a woman agreeing with him. Of course, I want Arthur to do well in the world, but that’s no reason why he should do it with your fortune, Harry. As it is, your father left him five thousand pounds, and he ought to be satisfied.”

“Especially in view of the simple life, and all that. Is not Arthur a bit of a Socialist, Martha?”

“Yes, he believes in having all his neighbours’ things in common. He preached about it several times--they don’t like it in the country, and someone wrote to the Bishop.”

“Did he suggest that his lordship should divide also?”

“Now you’re silly, Harry. What I wanted to tell you was that you really must begin to do something in the world.”

“I have blown a trumpet this very morning, and nearly cut off a Saxon’s head by accident. Is not that an achievement?”

“It is the kind of achievement which sends Arthur buying motor-cars----”

“To the glory of God, and the delight of the local repairer. Tell me, Martha, do you think I could earn any money, if I tried? Is it quite a mad hope?”

“You could do so, Harry--you have brains enough. Arthur admits that--he read your article about East Anglia in the magazine, and is quite sure you have abilities.”

“Strange term. I wonder how many men have gone to the devil because they had abilities?”

“But you really have them, Harry. That little bust you sent me over from Paris a year ago was beautiful.”

“Offer it to an art dealer in Piccadilly and see if he will give you five shillings for it. That kind of talent is the ruin of most of us. We touch the hem of Art’s garment, but she doesn’t stop to bless us. If I had been born a Portuguese Jew, and educated in the Ghetto, I might begin to speak of abilities. There are few left in the ordinary way.”

“But, at least, you might work, Harry.”

“What man who is in love works?”

“You! In love! Now, do tell me. Is it true--you aren’t joking, Harry?”

“I am not joking, Martha. Look at me and see. I am in love with a little French lady who is dancing on Yarmouth beach. It was she who kept me away from you last night.”

“Now, that’s nonsense, and I shall not listen to you.”

“I beg your pardon--you will listen as long as I go on talking. No woman shuts her ears to a man’s love story--she couldn’t if she tried.”

“But--it--it would be disgraceful, Harry!”

“Most of the pleasant things in life are disgraceful--from a narrow point of view. I think you used to dance before you married Arthur.”

“Oh, I only waltzed--that’s not the kind of dancing I mean.”

“Let me suggest to you, Martha, that you have not seen the Señorita Alphonsine. It would be fair to postpone a decision.”

“Harry, I shall not believe it any more than I believed the story of the married woman for whom you fought a duel.”

“That’s kind of you, Martha. A woman who does not believe a story about another woman is a treasure. She usually knows it is true because she has seen it with her own ears----”

“Eyes, Harry----”

“No, I mean ears. She sees it because she hears it.”

“Are you going to marry this dancer?”

“Ah, that’s what I don’t know. She also objected to Madame Lea, and her ideas about marriage are of the East, eastward. It is a subject you do not hear much about in a French atelier.”

“Arthur says that he does not think any Frenchman can be saved--he read somewhere that even the married men hardly remember the names of their own wives--that is, in the society of which you speak.”

“An embarrassing circumstance. He was once in Paris for three days, I think.”

“Yes, we had cheap tickets, and saw the Louvre and the Madeleine----”

“I wonder he did not bring an accent home--and pay duty on it at Charing Cross.”

“But he is quite a French scholar, you know. He has read Lafontaine, and he says that French people can never be as religious as we are, because the Bible isn’t the same thing when it’s translated.”

“A fine thought. But tell me, Martha, will you be my best woman if I marry Mimi?”

“Mimi--is that her name?”

“Yes, and a pretty name, too--don’t you think so?”

“What is the best woman at a wedding, Harry?”

“The woman who doesn’t run the bride down. Mimi hasn’t a friend in England and hasn’t a rag to her back. If she will marry me--and God alone knows whether she will or no--I want to see that she is all right and wants for nothing.”

“I’ll do that with pleasure if Arthur will let me.”

“Oh, Arthur be hanged. If this boat continues to carry us out to sea, as it is doing, we shall never see Arthur again.”

“But, Harry--oh, my dear cousin, where are we going?”

“That’s just what I want to know, Martha. Apparently we are on the way to the Hook of Holland. Do you know the Dutchmen? A charming people and some fine old cities.”

I spoke at random, but, to tell you the truth, Paddy, I never was in such a stew in my life. There is a tremendous current running down this narrow strait, and we had been talking so heedlessly that it had carried us far out to sea before I had thought anything about a course at all. When the danger became apparent, we must have been a good mile from the shore, drifting apparently toward the southeast and carried almost as swiftly as a stick upon a river. And, as if this were not enough, what should happen but that my right scull, refusing to respond to my herculean efforts, broke off short at the thowl and left me with but a stump in my hand. Then, in truth, the lid was off the casket--then, indeed, I foresaw what was to come, both the peril and the folly of it.

Poor little Martha! What a face she wore, and what a devil of a mess we seemed to be in! We had set off late in the afternoon, and it was now about the hour of sunset. I looked about me and saw a great watery plain glowing toward the west with a sheen of melting light; but, cold and grey as unburnished silver elsewhere. By here and there, a herring boat worked seaward beyond the banks; there were steamers upon the horizon, and one which had just passed us making northward, as it were, to Shields or the Humber. But, of help to be had for the crying, I saw positively none. As for the town of Lowestoft, it was now but a fringe of houses above a shimmering horizon. I could not even espy the masqueraders upon the beach, though there came to us from time to time a murmur of distant music, and, as it were, the ghost of a human voice. At last we passed away even from these--the sun sank; the waters began to beat about us a little ominously and the wind to utter a warning.

Now, Paddy, you may imagine how little I liked this situation and how careful I was that my real opinion concerning it should be kept from the frightened little woman at the tiller. A sailor, I suppose, would have made light of the whole affair, arguing that the set of the tide would change anon and that the same boat which was now being carried out to sea would presently be carried home again. So plain a fact did not occur to me even while I had a pair of sculls in my hand; but with one scull overboard and no particular use for the other I fear it entered but little into my calculations. At the best I hoped that some passing ship might pick us up--at the worst that we might drift right across in safety and take an early boat to Harwich and our homes. But the latter was a wild dream, as you may suppose--and I had all my work to do to comfort little Martha and to applaud her bravery.

“To begin with,” I put it to her, “we cannot go far in these parts and not spy out a herring-boat. The herring is a homely fish, Martha, and will naturally suggest Arthur and the fireside.”

“He will never forgive me,” she said, “never--never--you don’t know him, Harry. I shall hear of this to my dying day.”

“Of course you will. He will tell it proudly. An idiot of a man broke an oar out at sea and was only saved from a watery grave by the pluck and the resource of a brave woman--isn’t that what Arthur will say?”

“Think of the scandal in the parish, all the tongues that will be wagging--think of that!”

“It will be finer talk than the Pageant. Please write it down Martha, it may come in useful if I should perpetrate a book.”

“Don’t, don’t,” she cried, “don’t say it, Harry. I am afraid, horribly afraid.”

“Now, that you are not, or you would not confess it, Martha. It is I who am in a panic. I never was brave in the dark, and this particular kind of darkness is my abhorrence. I wonder if I flared a box of matches would it be any good, Martha. Do you think a fishing smack would understand it?”

She made some evasive answer--the poor little body, I don’t wonder that the situation scared her. There we were out in the gathering darkness, not a light in sight save at distant Lowestoft, the wind blowing cold as a blast from the hills, the sun gone down in a cloud, and the sea rising with a mournful cry which would have shamed the spirits of desolation. What to do, how to act even an old sailor might have been puzzled to say. My primitive maritime knowledge, obtained upon the yachts at Trouville, suggested an attempt to keep the head of the boat towards the swelling breakers and her bows above the crests of the increasing waves. I sat by Martha’s side, and, employing the remaining scull as a paddle, tried to achieve so desirable an end. But not without many a weird evolution which came near to costing us our lives.

To be candid, I was within an ace of drowning my cousin’s pretty wife, and that’s the whole truth of it. If you would give me ten thousand pounds upon the table, I would not again encounter those grim hours of helpless battling with monstrous waves and increasing winds blowing upon us out of the void of the night.

Such a sense of loneliness and despair I have never experienced. We seemed to have left the world of men far behind us. Great hollows opened and threatened to engulf us. We mounted to crests and beheld a grey horizon capped by mountainous clouds with the moon struggling to break a golden way amid them. I knew then that long hours had passed; I doubted that we should ever see the shore again.

And what does a woman do in moments like these. Well, if little Martha may speak for her sex, she cries a little, laughs for contrast, shivers when the cold can no longer be denied, and grows hot with hope upon the slightest word of encouragement. When I told her that I espied the light of a fishing-boat, she put both her arms about my neck and kissed me--when I had to admit that it was sailing away to the northward she just cried like a child who has met with disappointment. Nor was that poor creature, her husband, often out of her thoughts. A woman’s devotion to the man she has married may be diverted by his own follies, but the right kind of woman goes back upon it in the hour of danger. So with pretty Martha to-night. She wept not for herself but for the man’s sorrow--and there I could not comfort her at all.

It would have been nearly four o’clock of the morning and full light when the boat they had sent out from Lowestoft found us at last. We both got wet to the skin going aboard her, and were wrapped up in blankets when we arrived at the Vicarage. Shall I say that Arthur received us with a tragic air? Nothing of the kind; he just blubbered like a schoolgirl and was down on his marrow-bones--for which I honoured him--there and then. His demand for explanations came afterwards. Those were tragic, indeed. “There must be a public account of this,” he said. I told him not to be a fool, and he retorted by asking me to leave his house.

“I do not say,” he was good enough to remark, “that you can command the elements. Such was the power of the men of old. But at least you should know better than to leave the beach in full view of the people, with my wife as your companion, in so mad a folly. For that I shall never forgive you.”

“Then you won’t continue to say the Lord’s prayer,” was my retort--and I left him to think upon it.

But, naturally, I couldn’t stay here, Paddy--so where should I go but to Cromer, where “The Chimes” are playing. Be sure that the palms of these worthies were greased long ago, that the gentleman known as Jack Bendall has bought a new overcoat, that the lady at the piano is resplendent in a wonderful gown of satin, and that aromatic cigars of a Belgian brand are freely smoked by the company.

Mimi is now a queen among them.

But I am daring to hope that her sovereignty will be transferred elsewhere very soon--and that my daring plan will be rewarded by that success which you, my dear Paddy, would be the first to wish me. So in high hope find me,

Your friend,
Harry Gastonard.