Chapter 2 | Blind as Bats | The Adventures of Don Lavington

That same evening Don Lavington did not walk home with his uncle, but hung back to see Jem Wimble lock-up, and then sauntered slowly with him toward the little low house by the entrance gates, where the yard-man, as he was called, lived in charge.

Jem had been in the West India merchant’s service from a boy, and no one was more surprised than he when on the death of old Topley, Josiah Christmas said to him one morning,—

“Wimble, you had better take poor old Topley’s place.”

“And—and take charge of the yard, sir?”

“Yes. I can trust you, can’t I?”

“Oh, yes, sir; but—”

“Ah! Yes. You have no wife to put in the cottage.”

Jem began to look foolish, and examine the lining of his hat.

“Well, sir, if it comes to that,” he faltered; and there was a weak comical aspect in his countenance which made Don burst out laughing.

“I know, uncle,” he cried, “he has got a sweetheart.”

“Well, Master Don,” said the young man, colouring up; “and nothing to be ashamed on neither.”

“Certainly not,” said the merchant quietly. “You had better get married, Wimble, and you can have the cottage. I will buy and lend you old Topley’s furniture.”

Wimble begged pardon afterwards, for on hearing all this astounding news, he rushed out of the office, pulled off his leather apron, put on his coat as he ran, and disappeared for an hour, at the end of which time he returned, went mysteriously up to Don and whispered,—

“It’s all right, sir; she says she will.”

The result was that Jem Wimble looked twice as important, and cocked his cocked hat on one side, for he had ten shillings a week more, and the furnished cottage, kept the keys, kept the men’s time, and married a wife who bore a most extraordinary likeness to a pretty little bantam hen.

This was three months before the scene just described, but though Jem spoke in authoritative tones to the men, it was with bated breath to his little wife, who was standing in the doorway looking as fierce as a kitten, when Jem walked up in company with his young master.

“Which I will not find fault before Master Lindon, Jem,” she said; “but you know I do like you to be home punctual to tea.”

“Yes, my dear, of course, of course,” said Jem, apologetically. “Not much past time, and had to shut up first.”

“That’s what you always say when you’re late. You don’t know, Master Don, what a life he leads me.”

“’Tain’t true, Master Don,” cried Jem. “She’s always a-wherritting me.”

“Now I appeal to Master Don: was it me, sir, as was late? There’s the tea ready, and the bread and butter cut, and the watercresses turning limp, and the flies getting at the s’rimps. It arn’t your fault, sir, I know, and I’m not grumbling, but there never was such a place as this for flies.”

“It’s the sugar, Sally,” said Don, who had sauntered aimlessly in with Jem, and as he stared round the neat little kitchen with the pleasant meal all ready, he felt as if he should like to stay to tea instead of going home.

“Yes, it’s the sugar, sir, I know; and you’d think it would sweeten some people’s temper, but it don’t.”

“Which if it’s me you mean, and you’re thinking of this morning—”

“Which I am, Jem, and you ought to be ashamed. You grumbled over your breakfast, and you reg’larly worried your dinner, and all on account of a button.”

“Well, then, you should sew one on. When a man’s married he does expect to find buttons on his clean shirts.”

“Yes, and badly enough you want ’em, making ’em that sticky as you do.”

“I can’t help that; it’s only sugar.”

“Only sugar indeed! And if it was my last words I’d say it—there was a button on the neck.”

“Well, I know that,” cried Jem; “and what’s the good of a button being on, if it comes off directly you touch it? Is it any good, Mas’ Don?”

“Oh, don’t ask me,” cried the lad, half-amused, half annoyed, and wishing they’d ask him to tea.

“He dragged it off, Master Don.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did, Jem, and you know you did, just to aggravate me.”

“Wasn’t half sewn on.”

“It was. I can’t sew your buttons on with copper wire.”

“You two are just like a girl and boy,” cried Don. “Here you have everything comfortable about you, and a good place, and you’re always quarrelling.”

“Well, it’s his fault, sir.”

“No, sir, it’s her’n.”

“It’s both your faults, and you ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

“I’m not,” said Sally; “and I wish I’d never seen him.”

“And I’m sure I wish the same,” said Jem despondently. “I never see such a temper.”

“There, Master Don,” cried the droll-looking little Dutch doll of a woman. “That’s how he is always going on.”

“There, Jem, now you’ve made your poor little wife cry. You are the most discontented fellow I ever saw.”

“Come, I like that, Master Don; you’ve a deal to brag about, you have. Why, you’re all at sixes and sevens at home.”

This was such a home thrust that Don turned angrily and walked out of the place.

“There!” cried Sally. “I always knew how it would be. Master Don was the best friend we had, and now you’ve offended him, and driven him away.”

“Shouldn’t ha’ said nasty things then,” grumbled Jem, sitting down and attacking his tea.

“Now he’ll go straight to his uncle and tell him what a man you are.”

“Let him,” said Jem, with his mouth full of bread and butter.

“And of course you’ll lose your place, and we shall be turned out into the street to starve.”

“Will you be quiet, Sally? How’s a man to eat his tea with you going on like that?”

“Turned out into the world without a chance of getting another place. Oh! It’s too bad. Why did I ever marry such a man as you?”

“’Cause you were glad of the chance,” grumbled Jem, raising his hand to pour out some tea, but it was pushed aside indignantly, and the little woman busily, but with a great show of indignation, filled and sweetened her husband’s cup, which she dabbed down before him, talking all the while, and finishing with,—

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Jem.”

“I am,” he grumbled. “Ashamed that I was ever such a stupid as to marry a girl who’s always dissatisfied. Nice home you make me.”

“And a nice home you make me, sir; and don’t eat your victuals so fast. It’s like being at the wild beast show.”

“That’s right; go on,” grumbled Jem, doubling his rate of consumption. “Grudge me my meals now. Good job if we could undo it all, and be as we was.”

“I wish we could,” cried the little woman, whose eyes seemed to say that her lips were not telling the truth.

“So do I,” cried Jem, tossing off his third cup of tea; and then to his little wife’s astonishment he took a thick slice of bread and butter in each hand, clapped them together as if they were cymbals, rose from the table and put on his hat.

“Where are you going, Jem?”

“Out.”

“What for?”

“To eat my bread and butter down on the quay.”

“But why, Jem?”

“’Cause there’s peace and quietness there.”

Bang! Went the door, and little Mrs Wimble stood gazing at it angrily for a few moments before sitting down and having what she called “a good cry,” after which she rose, wiped her eyes, and put away the tea things without partaking of any herself.

“Poor Jem!” she said softly; “I’m afraid I’m very unkind to him sometimes.”

Just at that moment Jem was sitting on an empty cask, eating his bread and butter, and watching a boat manned by blue-jackets going off to the sloop of war lying out toward the channel, and flying her colours in the evening breeze.

“Poor little Sally!” he said to himself. “We don’t seem to get on somehow, and I’m afraid I’m a bit rough to her; but knives and scissors! What a temper she have got.”

Meanwhile, in anything but a pleasant frame of mind, Don had gone home to find that the tea was ready, and that he was being treated as a laggard.

“Come, Lindon,” said his uncle quietly, “you have kept us waiting some time.”

The lad glanced quickly round the well-furnished room, bright with curiosities brought in many a voyage from the west, and with the poison of Mike’s words still at work, he wondered how much of what he saw rightfully belonged to him.

The next moment his eyes lit on the soft sweet troubled face of his mother, full of appeal and reproach, and it seemed to Don that his uncle had been upsetting her by an account of his delinquencies.

“It’s top bad, and I don’t deserve it,” he said to himself. “Everything seems to go wrong now. Well, what are you looking at?” he added, to himself, as he took his seat and stared across at his cousin, the playmate of many years, whose quiet little womanly face seemed to repeat her father’s grave, reproachful look, but who, as it were, snatched her eyes away as soon as she met his gaze.

“They all hate me,” thought Don, who was in that unhappy stage of a boy’s life when help is so much needed to keep him from turning down one of the dark side lanes of the great main route.

“Been for a walk, Don?” said his mother with a tender look.

“No, mother, I only stopped back in the yard a little while.”

His uncle set down his cup sharply.

“You have not been keeping that scoundrel Bannock?” he cried.

“No, sir; I’ve been talking to Jem.”

“Ho!” ejaculated the old merchant. “That’s better. But you might have come straight home.”

Don’s eyes encountered his Cousin Kitty’s just then, as she gave her head a shake to throw back the brown curls which clustered about her white forehead.

She turned her gaze upon her plate, and he could see that she was frowning.

“Yes,” thought Don, “they all dislike me, and I’m only a worry and trouble to my mother. I wish I was far away—anywhere.”

He went on with his tea moodily and in silence, paying no heed to the reproachful glances of his mother’s eyes, which seemed to him to say, and with some reason, “Don’t be sulky, Don, my boy; try and behave as I could wish.”

“It’s of no use to try,” he said to himself; and the meal passed off very silently, and with a cold chill on every one present.

“I’m very sorry, Laura,” said her brother, as soon as Don had left the room; “and I don’t know what to do for the best. I hate finding fault and scolding, but if the boy is in the wrong I must chide.”

“Try and be patient with him, Josiah,” said Mrs Lavington pleadingly. “He is very young yet.”

“Patient? I’m afraid I have been too patient. That scoundrel at the yard has unsettled him with his wild tales of the sea; and if I allowed it, Don would make him quite a companion.”

“But, Josiah—”

“There, don’t look like that, my dear. I promised you I would play a father’s part to the boy, and I will; but you must not expect me to be a weak indulgent father, and spoil him with foolish lenity. There, enough for one day. I daresay we shall get all right in time.”

“Oh, yes,” cried Mrs Lavington, earnestly. “He’s a true-hearted, brave boy; don’t try to crush him down.”

“Crush him, nonsense!” cried the merchant, angrily. “You really are too bad, Laura, and—”

He stopped, for just then Don re-entered the room to flush up angrily as he saw his mother in tears; and he had heard enough of his uncle’s remark and its angry tone to make him writhe.

“Ill using her now,” he said to himself, as he set his teeth and walked to the window.

The closing of the door made him start round quickly, to find that his mother was close behind him, and his uncle gone. “What has Uncle Jos been saying to you, mother?” he cried angrily.

“Nothing—nothing particular, my boy,” she faltered. “He has,” cried Don fiercely; “and I won’t have it. He may scold and abuse me as much as he likes, but I will not have him ill use you.”

“Ill use me, Don?” cried Mrs Lavington. “Nonsense, my dear boy. Your uncle is all that is kind and good; and he loves you very dearly, Don, if you could only try—try a little more, my dear boy, to do what he likes, and please him.”

“I do try, mother, but it’s no good.”

“Don’t say that, Don. Try a little harder—for my sake, dear, as well as your own.”

“I have tried, I am always trying, and it’s of no use. Nothing pleases uncle, and the men in the yard know it.”

“Don, my boy, what foolish obstinate fit is this which has come over you?” said Mrs Lavington tenderly.

“I’m not obstinate,” he said sullenly; “only unhappy.”

“Is it not your own fault, my darling?” she whispered; “believe me, your uncle is one of the kindest and best of men.”

Don shook his head.

“Are you going to prefer the opinion of the men of the yard to mine, dear?”

“No, mother, but uncle is your brother, and you believe in him and defend him. You know how harsh and unkind he is to me.”

“Not unkind, Don, only firm and for your good. Now come, my boy, do, for my sake, try to drive away these clouds, and let us all be happy once more.”

“It’s of no use to try, mother; I shall never be happy here, tied down to a desk. It’s like being uncle’s slave.”

“What am I to say to you, Don, if you talk like this?” said Mrs Lavington. “Believe me you are wrong, and some day you will own it. You will see what a mistaken view you have taken of your uncle’s treatment. There, I shall say no more now.”

“You always treat me as if I were a child,” said Don, bitterly. “I’m seventeen now, mother, and I ought to know something.”

“Yes, my boy,” said Mrs Lavington gently; “at seventeen we think we know a good deal; and at forty we smile as we look back and see what a very little that ‘good deal’ was.”

Don shook his head.

“There, we will have no more sad looks. Uncle is eager to do all he can to make us happy.”

“I wish I could think so,” cried Don, bitterly.

“You may, my dear. And now, come, try and throw aside all those fanciful notions about going abroad and meeting with adventures. There is no place like home, Don, and you will find out some day that is true.”

“But I have no home till I make one,” said the lad gloomily.

“You have an excellent home here, Don, the gift of one who has kindly taken the place toward you of your father. There, I will listen to no more from you, for this is all foolish fighting of your worse against your better self.”

There was a quiet dignity in his mother’s words which awed Don for the moment, but the gentle embrace given the next minute seemed to undo that which the firmness had achieved, and that night the cloud over the lad’s life seemed darker than ever.

“She takes uncle’s side and thinks he is everything,” he said gloomily, as he went to bed. “She means right, but she is wrong. Oh, how I wish I could go right away somewhere and begin life all over again.”

Then he lay down to sleep, but slumber did not come, so he went on thinking of many things, to fall into a state of unconsciousness at last, from which he awoke to the fact that it was day—a very eventful day for him, but he did not awaken to the fact that he was very blind.