“But do we want it to change?” I asked. “It seems to me to be just where it should be, dead behind us.”
“Aye, aye,” said Captain Goyles, “dead’s the right word to use, for dead we’d all be, bar Providence, if we was to put out in this. You see, sir,” he explained, in answer to my look of surprise, “this is what we call a ‘land wind,’ that is, it’s a-blowing, as one might say, direct off the land.”
When I came to think of it the man was right; the wind was blowing off the land.
“It may change in the night,” said Captain Goyles, more hopefully “anyhow, it’s not violent, and she rides well.”
Captain Goyles resumed his cigar, and I returned aft, and explained to Ethelbertha the reason for the delay. Ethelbertha, who appeared to be less high spirited than when we first boarded, wanted to know why we couldn’t sail when the wind was off the land.
“If it was not blowing off the land,” said Ethel-bertha, “it would be blowing off the sea, and that would send us back into the shore again. It seems to me this is just the very wind we want.”
I said: “That is your inexperience, love; it seems to be the very wind we want, but it is not. It’s what we call a land wind, and a land wind is always very dangerous.”
Ethelbertha wanted to know why a land wind was very dangerous.
Her argumentativeness annoyed me somewhat; maybe I was feeling a bit cross; the monotonous rolling heave of a small yacht at anchor depresses an ardent spirit.
“I can’t explain it to you,” I replied, which was true, “but to set sail in this wind would be the height of foolhardiness, and I care for you too much, dear, to expose you to unnecessary risks.”
I thought this rather a neat conclusion, but Ethel-bertha merely replied that she wished, under the circumstances, we hadn’t come on board till Tuesday, and went below.
In the morning the wind veered round to the north; I was up early, and observed this to Captain Goyles.
“Aye, aye, sir,” he remarked; “it’s unfortunate, but it can’t be helped.”
“You don’t think it possible for us to start to-day?” I hazarded.
He did not get angry with me, he only laughed.
“Well, sir,” said he, “if you was a-wanting to go to Ipswich, I should say as it couldn’t be better for us, but our destination being, as you see, the Dutch coast – why there you are[17]!”
I broke the news to Ethelbertha, and we agreed to spend the day on shore. Harwich is not a merry town, towards evening you might call it dull. We had some tea and watercress at Dovercourt, and then returned to the quay to look for Captain Goyles and the boat. We waited an hour for him. When he came he was more cheerful than we were; if he had not told me himself that he never drank anything but one glass of hot grog before turning in for the night[18], I should have said he was drunk.
The next morning the wind was in the south, which made Captain Goyles rather anxious, it appearing that it was equally unsafe to move or to stop where we were; our only hope was it would change before anything happened. By this time, Ethelbertha had taken a dislike to the yacht; she said that, personally, she would rather be spending a week in a bathing machine, seeing that a bathing machine was at least steady.
We passed another day in Harwich, and that night and the next, the wind still continuing in the south, we slept at the “King’s Head.” On Friday the wind was blowing direct from the east. I met Captain Goyles on the quay, and suggested that, under these circumstances, we might start. He appeared irritated at my persistence.
“If you knew a bit more, sir,” he said, “you’d see for yourself that it’s impossible. The wind’s a-blowing direct off the sea.”
I said: “Captain Goyles, tell me what is this thing I have hired? Is it a yacht or a house-boat?”
He seemed surprised at my question.
He said: “It’s a yawl.”
“What I mean is,” I said, “can it be moved at all, or is it a fixture here? If it is a fixture,” I continued, “tell me so frankly, then we will get some ivy in boxes and train over the port-holes, stick some flowers and an awning on deck, and make the thing look pretty. If, on the other hand, it can be moved – ”
“Moved!” interrupted Captain Goyles. “You get the right wind behind the Rogue – ”
I said: “What is the right wind?”
Captain Goyles looked puzzled.
“In the course of this week,” I went on, “we have had wind from the north, from the south, from the east, from the west – with variations. If you can think of any other point of the compass from which it can blow, tell me, and I will wait for it. If not, and if that anchor has not grown into the bottom of the ocean, we will have it up to-day and see what happens.”
He grasped the fact that I was determined.[19]
“Very well, sir,” he said, “you’re master and I’m man. I’ve only got one child as is still dependent on me, thank God, and no doubt your executors will feel it their duty to do the right thing by the old woman.”
His solemnity impressed me.
“Mr. Goyles,” I said, “be honest with me. Is there any hope, in any weather, of getting away from this damned hole?”
Captain Goyles’s kindly geniality returned to him.
“You see, sir,” he said, “this is a very peculiar coast. We’d be all right if we were once out, but getting away from it in a cockle-shell like that – well, to be frank, sir, it wants doing[20].”
I left Captain Goyles with the assurance that he would watch the weather as a mother would her sleeping babe; it was his own simile, and it struck me as rather touching. I saw him again at twelve o’clock; he was watching it from the window of the “Chain and Anchor.”
At five o’clock that evening a stroke of luck occurred; in the middle of the High Street I met a couple of yachting friends, who had had to put in by reason of a strained rudder[21]. I told them my story, and they appeared less surprised than amused. Captain Goyles and the two men were still watching the weather. I ran into the “King’s Head,” and prepared Ethelbertha. The four of us crept quietly down to the quay, where we found our boat. Only the boy was on board; my two friends took charge of the yacht, and by six o’clock we were scudding merrily up the coast.
We put in that night at Aldborough, and the next day worked up to Yarmouth, where, as my friends had to leave, I decided to abandon the yacht. We sold the stores by auction on Yarmouth sands early in the morning. I made a loss, but had the satisfaction of “doing” Captain Goyles. I left the Rogue in charge of a local mariner, who, for a couple of sovereigns, undertook to see to its return to Harwich; and we came back to London by train. There may be yachts other than the Rogue, and skippers other than Mr. Goyles, but that experience has prejudiced me against both.
George also thought a yacht would be a good deal of responsibility, so we dismissed the idea.
“What about the river?” suggested Harris.
“We have had some pleasant times on that.”
George pulled in silence at his cigar, and I cracked another nut.
“The river is not what it used to be,” said I; “I don’t know what, but there’s a something – a dampness – about the river air that always starts my lumbago.”
“It’s the same with me,” said George. “I don’t know how it is, but I never can sleep now in the neighbourhood of the river. I spent a week at Joe’s place in the spring, and every night I woke up at seven o’clock and never got a wink afterwards.”
“I merely suggested it,” observed Harris. “Personally, I don’t think it good for me, either; it touches my gout.”
“What suits me best,” I said, “is mountain air. What say you to a walking tour in Scotland?”
“It’s always wet in Scotland,” said George. “I was three weeks in Scotland the year before last, and was never dry once all the time – not in that sense.”
“It’s fine enough in Switzerland,” said Harris.
“They would never stand our going to Switzerland by ourselves,” I objected. “You know what happened last time. It must be some place where no delicately nurtured woman or child could possibly live; a country of bad hotels and comfortless travelling; where we shall have to rough it, to work hard, to starve perhaps – ”
“Easy!” interrupted George, “easy, there! Don’t forget I’m coming with you.”
“I have it![22]” exclaimed Harris; “a bicycle tour!”
George looked doubtful.
“There’s a lot of uphill about a bicycle tour,” said he, “and the wind is against you.”
“So there is downhill, and the wind behind you,” said Harris.
“I’ve never noticed it,” said George.
“You won’t think of anything better than a bicycle tour,” persisted Harris.
I was inclined to agree with him.
“And I’ll tell you where,” continued he; “through the Black Forest[23].”
“Why, that’s all uphill,” said George.
“Not all,” retorted Harris; “say two-thirds. And there’s one thing you’ve forgotten.”
He looked round cautiously, and sunk his voice to a whisper.
“There are little railways going up those hills, little cogwheel things that – ”
The door opened, and Mrs. Harris appeared. She said that Ethelbertha was putting on her bonnet, and that Muriel, after waiting, had given “The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party” without us.
“Club, to-morrow, at four,” whispered Harris to me, as he rose, and I passed it on to George as we went upstairs.
Chapter II
A delicate business – What Ethelbertha might have said – What she did say – What Mrs. Harris said – What we told George – We will start on Wednesday – George suggests the possibility of improving our minds[24]– Harris and I are doubtful – Which man on a tandem does the most work? – The opinion of the man in front – Views of the man behind – How Harris lost his wife – The luggage question – The wisdom of my late Uncle Podger – Beginning of story about a man who had a bag
I opened the ball[25] with Ethelbertha that same evening. I commenced by being purposely a little irritable. My idea was that Ethelbertha would remark upon this. I should admit it, and account for it by over brain pressure. This would naturally lead to talk about my health in general, and the evident necessity there was for my taking prompt and vigorous measures. I thought that with a little tact I might even manage so that the suggestion should come from Ethelbertha herself. I imagined her saying: “No, dear, it is change you want; complete change. Now be persuaded by me[26], and go away for a month. No, do not ask me to come with you. I know you would rather that I did, but I will not. It is the society of other men you need. Try and persuade George and Harris to go with you. Believe me, a highly strung brain such as yours demands occasional relaxation from the strain of domestic surroundings. Forget for a little while that children want music lessons, and boots, and bicycles, with tincture of rhubarb three times a day; forget there are such things in life as cooks, and house decorators, and next-door dogs, and butchers’ bills. Go away to some green corner of the earth, where all is new and strange to you, where your over-wrought mind will gather peace and fresh ideas. Go away for a space and give me time to miss you, and to reflect upon your goodness and virtue, which, continually present with me, I may, human-like, be apt to forget, as one, through use, grows indifferent to the blessing of the sun and the beauty of the moon. Go away, and come back refreshed in mind and body, a brighter, better man – if that be possible – than when you went away.”
But even when we obtain our desires they never come to us garbed as we would wish. To begin with, Ethelbertha did not seem to remark that I was irritable; I had to draw her attention to it. I said:
“You must forgive me, I’m not feeling quite myself to-night.”
She said: “Oh! I have not noticed anything different; what’s the matter with you?”
“I can’t tell you what it is,” I said; “I’ve felt it coming on for weeks.”
“It’s that whisky,” said Ethelbertha. “You never touch it except when we go to the Harris’s. You know you can’t stand it; you have not a strong head.”
“It isn’t the whisky,” I replied; “it’s deeper than that. I fancy it’s more mental than bodily.”
“You’ve been reading those criticisms again,” said Ethelbertha, more sympathetically; “why don’t you take my advice and put them on the fire?”
“And it isn’t the criticisms,” I answered; “they’ve been quite flattering of late – one or two of them.”
“Well, what is it?” said Ethelbertha; “there must be something to account for it.”
“No, there isn’t,” I replied; “that’s the remarkable thing about it; I can only describe it as a strange feeling of unrest that seems to have taken possession of me.”
Ethelbertha glanced across at me with a somewhat curious expression, I thought; but as she said nothing, I continued the argument myself.
“This aching monotony of life, these days of peaceful, uneventful felicity, they appal one.”
“I should not grumble at them,” said Ethelbertha; “we might get some of the other sort, and like them still less.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” I replied. “In a life of continuous joy, I can imagine even pain coming as a welcome variation. I wonder sometimes whether the saints in heaven do not occasionally feel the continual serenity a burden. To myself a life of endless bliss, uninterrupted by a single contrasting note, would, I feel, grow maddening. I suppose,” I continued, “I am a strange sort of man; I can hardly understand myself at times. There are moments,” I added, “when I hate myself.”
Often a little speech like this, hinting at hidden depths of indescribable emotion has touched Ethel-bertha, but to-night she appeared strangely unsympathetic. With regard to heaven and its possible effect upon me, she suggested my not worrying myself about that, remarking it was always foolish to go halfway to meet trouble that might never come; while as to my being a strange sort of fellow, that, she supposed, I could not help, and if other people were willing to put up with me, there was an end of the matter. The monotony of life, she added, was a common experience; there she could sympathise with me.
“You don’t know I long,” said Ethelbertha, “to get away occasionally, even from you; but I know it can never be, so I do not brood upon it.”
I had never heard Ethelbertha speak like this before; it astonished and grieved me beyond measure.
“That’s not a very kind remark to make,” I said, “not a wifely remark[27].”
“I know it isn’t,” she replied; “that is why I have never said it before. You men never can understand,” continued Ethelbertha, “that, however fond a woman may be of a man, there are times when he palls upon her. You don’t know how I long to be able sometimes to put on my bonnet and go out, with nobody to ask me where I am going, why I am going, how long I am going to be, and when I shall be back. You don’t know how I sometimes long to order a dinner that I should like and that the children would like, but at the sight of which you would put on your hat and be off to the Club. You don’t know how much I feel inclined sometimes to invite some woman here that I like, and that I know you don’t; to go and see the people that I want to see, to go to bed when I am tired, and to get up when I feel I want to get up. Two people living together are bound both to be continually sacrificing their own desires to the other one. It is sometimes a good thing to slacken the strain a bit[28].”
On thinking over Ethelbertha’s words afterwards, I have come to see their wisdom; but at the time I admit I was hurt and indignant.
“If your desire,” I said, “is to get rid of me – ”
“Now, don’t be an old goose[29],” said Ethelbertha; “I only want to get rid of you for a little while, just long enough to forget there are one or two corners about you that are not perfect, just long enough to let me remember what a dear fellow you are in other respects, and to look forward to your return, as I used to look forward to your coming in the old days when I did not see you so often as to become, perhaps, a little indifferent to you, as one grows indifferent to the glory of the sun, just because he is there every day.”