Part 55 (1/2)
”Not so bad, you were saying, as...?” Thus Rosalind, to divert the conversation from the child.
”Oh dear! What _was_ I saying? That child! What plagues the little things are!” The lady closes her eyes for two seconds behind a horizontal gloved hand, a seclusion to recollect in; then continues: ”Oh yes, when it's a shopman. I dare say you've heard of that very painful case--daughter of a well-known Greek Pr....”
But the speaker has tact enough to see her mistake from the simultaneous loud speech it provokes. Every one seems to have something vociferous to say, and all speak at once. Sally's contribution is a suggestion that before dolly is put to the torture we shall go into the downstairs place and see the gentleman who's fis.h.i.+ng catch a big grey mullet. It is adopted. Rosalind only remains upstairs, and takes the opportunity to communicate the Julius Bradshaw epic to Gwenny's mamma, who will now be more careful than ever about the sort of people you pick up at the seaside and drop. She puts these words by in her mind, for Gwenny's papa, later on.
The gentleman who is to be seen catching the big grey mullet hadn't caught it, so far--not when the party arrived on the strange middle-deck of the pier the water reaches at high tide, and persuades occasional molluscs to grow on the floor of, with promises of a bath next month. The green reflected light from the endless rise and fall of the waves Gwenny could see (without getting down) through the floor-gaps, seemed to be urging the fisher-gentleman to give it up, and pointing out that the grey mullet was down here, and didn't mean to be caught. But he paid no attention, and only went on doing all the things that fishers do. He ascribed the fishes' reluctance to bite to the sort of sky, and not to common-sense on their part. He tried the other side instead. He lost his worm, and blamed him for going off the hook--which he would have done himself, and he knew it! He believed, honestly, that a fish of fabulous dimensions had thought seriously of biting, and would have bitten, only you got in the light, or made a noise.
But there was no noise to speak of, really, except the clunk-clunk of one or two moored rowboats down below, and the sh-r-r-r-r-p (if that spells it) of their corrugated plank-sides, as they dipped and dripped alternately. They were close to the bottom flight of stairs, whose lowest step was left forlorn in the air, and had to be jumped off when a real spring-tide came that knew its business.
Gwenny's remark, ”Ze man is fissin',” seemed to point to an incubation of an idea, familiar to maturer life, that fis.h.i.+ng is more truly a state than an action. But the addendum--that he didn't ca.s.s any fiss--betrayed her inexperience. Maturity does not call attention to ill-success; or, if it does, it lays it at the door of the fish.
”What a jolly header one could have from here! No railings or anything. No--ducky! I won't put you down to look over the edge.
That's not a thing for little girls to do.”
”You'd never get up again, Sarah. You'd have to swim ash.o.r.e.”
”One could swim round the steps, Jeremiah--at least, according to the tide. It's slack water now.”
”I wish, Mr. Fenwick--(so does Julius)--that you would make that girl reasonable. She'll drown herself before she's done.”
”I know she will, Mrs. Paganini. Sure and certain! n.o.body can stop her. But Vereker's going to bring her to.”
”Where _is_ the doctor, Tish? Didn't he say he was coming?” This was Bradshaw. He usually says things to his wife, and leaves publication to her.
”Of course he said he was coming. I wonder if anything's the matter?”
”Oh, no! It's his ma! The Goody's put an embargo on him, and kept him at home. Poor Prosy!” Sally is vexed, too. But observe!--she knows perfectly well that nothing but the Goody would have kept Prosy from his appointment.
No one in particular, but every one more or less, supposes that now we must go back for dolly to be galvanised, Tishy rather reluctantly, for she does not share her husband's indifference about what the detestable one above says on the subject of shopmen; Miss Arkwright greedily, being reminded of a higher object in life than mere grey mullet catching. She, however, ascribes her avidity to dolly, calling on public credulity to believe that the latter has spoken to that effect.
The arrangement of dolly in connexion with the two bra.s.s handles offers difficulties, but a felicitous solution is discovered, for not only will dolly remain in contact with both if her arms are thrust inside them, but insomuch as her sleeves are stiff and expansive, and require a perceptible pull to withdraw them, will remain suspended in mid-air without further support, to enjoy the rapture or endure the torture of the current, as may prove to be the case. From this arises an advantage--namely, that her mamma will be able to give her attention to the regulator, and s.h.i.+ft the wire bundle in and out, with a due regard to dolly's powers of endurance.
What little things the lives of the folk in this story have turned on! Now, suppose Gwenny had never been allowed to take charge of that regulator! However, this is antic.i.p.ation.
When dolly had endured unmoved the worst that science could inflict, nothing would satisfy Miss Gwenny but that every one else should take hold in a circle, as on a previous occasion, and that she should retain control of the regulator. The experiment was tried as proposed, all present joining in it except Mrs. Arkwright, who excused herself owing to the trouble of taking her gloves off. Including nurse, there were six persons. However, as nurse couldn't abide it, almost before it had begun to say whizzy-wizzy-wizz, this number was reduced to five.
”Keep your eye on the kid, my dear,” said Fenwick, addressing the presiding young lady in his easy-going way; ”don't let her put it on all at once. Are you ready, Sarah? You ready, Mrs. Paganini? All right--fire away!”
The young lady in charge kept a careful hand near Miss Gwenny's, who was instructed or guided to increase the current gradually. Her att.i.tude was docile and misleading.
”Go on--a little more--yes, a little more.... No, that's enough!...
Oh, what nonsense! that's nothing!... Oh, Sally, do let _go_!... Oh, Tishy, what a goose you are! That's nothing.... E-ow! It's horrible.
_I_ won't have any more of it.” The chorus of exclamations, which you may allot at choice, ended in laughter as the galvanised circle broke up.
”Well, you are a lot of weak-kneed ... conductivities,” said Fenwick, feeling for the word. ”That was nothing, as Sarah says.”