The Ghost and Mrs. Muir (14 page)

The pawnbroker, a tall thin man, with small dark eyes that looked anywhere but at the person he was addressing, reached out a bony hand to pick up the brooch, and, screwing a magnifying glass into his right eye, examined the diamonds intently.

“I presume you want this reset,” he said in a hollow voice.

Lucy shook her head. “No,” she whispered, “I—I want to sell it.”

The man looked at the dove, after this remark, with quite a different expression, almost as if it had turned into a glass imitation of a sparrow. He laid it down on the counter.

“It’s very old-fashioned,” he said disparagingly.

“But I have been told the stones are good ones,” said Lucy, “and the setting is twenty-two carat.”

“Fifteen,” said the man abruptly.

“Twenty-two—it’s marked,” replied Lucy.

“No, no, I’ll give you fifteen pounds for the brooch,” said the man, looking away over Lucy’s head, as if she were addressing him from the ceiling.

“That doesn’t seem very much,” said Lucy doubtfully.

He shrugged his shoulders, and, turning away, began to tot up figures in a ledger.

“There’s a brooch,” said Lucy, pointing to the glass showcase beneath the counter, “with much smaller diamonds, and that has fifty pounds marked on it.”

“Modern setting—platinum,” said the man, continuing to add.

“Couldn’t you give me——”

“Sixty pounds and not a penny less, dammit,” roared the captain’s voice.

The pawnbroker looked up from his book and stared with goggling eyes at Lucy, who stared back at him in equal horror, scarlet-cheeked, her mouth open to frame the words she had been about to utter.

“Wh—what was that you said?” asked the man, lowering his gaze.

“Sixty pounds, you herring-gutted sneak thief,” said the captain. “The emeralds may be chips but the diamonds are good and you know it—worth sixty alone——”

“Take it away—take it away,” said the pawnbroker, gasping, “looking such a lady, too.”

“You hand over sixty pounds,” snapped the captain. Lucy continued to stand there, speechless. “Damn your eyes, don’t you know good diamonds when you see them, and honestly come by too, which is more than you can say about some of the stuff you receive here, I’ll lay my Bible oath.”

“Shut your trap,” snarled the pawnbroker, his face going the colour of parchment. “Who are you anyway!”

“Never you mind,” said the captain, “but I know what I know. Is that brooch worth sixty or isn’t it?”

“Blackmail,” mumbled the pawnbroker, “that’s what.”

“Guilty conscience,” said the captain. “I’m not blackmailing anyone, I’m offering you some damn fine diamonds at a damn low price, take it or leave it.”

With shaking hands the pawnbroker opened his till and, sorting out a bundle of notes, pushed them across the counter to Lucy, who picked them up with equally trembling fingers and put them in her bag.

“Thank you,” she said gently, and hurried away, leaving the pawnbroker staring at the symbol of peace on the green baize cloth in front of him.

“I don’t care,” said Lucy to the captain in the privacy of her own home, “you had no right to do it. It put me in a terrible position—and I’ll never dare set foot in Whitmouth again.”

“As you never go there anyway, you don’t lose much by that,” said the captain. “Why didn’t you get the typewriter?”

“Why didn’t I get the typewriter?” said Lucy. “For one thing the shops were shut, and for another I shall never dare go shopping in person again anywhere.”

“Well, I’m sorry, me dear,” said the captain, “but I couldn’t let that rogue get away with cheating you out of forty-five pounds.”

“If he was such a rogue, how could he hear you?” asked Lucy. “That’s what puzzles me.”

“Rogues aren’t necessarily insensitive,” replied the captain, “and all sensitive people can hear me—that’s why Miles heard me. It’s only those with one-track minds, who never can see or feel anyone’s point of view but their own, who are deaf spiritually.”

“But I thought you said Miles was entirely selfish,” said Lucy.

“Selfish, but not insensitive,” said the captain. “He could feel and see anyone’s point of view and turn it to his own advantage. And good and bad doesn’t always mean spiritual and unspiritual, that’s another man-made distinction; some of the worst men by earthly standards have the finest thoughts and feelings, but they get in a fog, perhaps at the beginning of their lives, and never can learn to navigate in a straight line. And I’ll tell you something else; it’s the saints and the sinners that are much the closest to first things, not the half-and-halfers with their negative sins of spite, malice, and uncharitableness.”

“Which are you,” asked Lucy, “a saint or a sinner?”

“Well, I’m no saint,” said the captain. “I didn’t take a very high grade on the other side, but at least I was honest with myself and I wasn’t thrown out altogether.”

“You mean there is a hell?” said Lucy.

“Some people might call it so,” said the captain. “There’s a dimension that some spirits have to wait in till they realize and admit the truth about themselves. It’s no damn good trying to teach anyone who won’t admit he has anything to learn.”

“Will I go into that dimension?” asked Lucy, wide-eyed.

“Not if you’re completely honest with yourself,” said the captain. “But don’t you worry your head about where you’ll end at the end of the voyage, that’s a sure way to run on the rocks under your nose. And now hop into bed like a good girl, and to-morrow we’ll start on my life in long-hand, till you can order a typewriter from London.”

There were many times in the next few weeks that Lucy folded her hands in her lap and refused to go on with
Blood and Swash
.

First there was the difficulty she found in typing. She had never used a typewriter before. In a vague way she had thought that they ran of themselves like a sewing machine, but she found it to be far otherwise. This innocent looking little machine seemed to have a perverse personality of its own, that persisted in showering the paper with uncalled-for exclamation marks, with brackets, per-cent signs, fractions and dashes; nor could it spell. Lucy had always prided herself on her spelling, but on this typewriter the simplest words came out looking like a foreign language, and some letters seemed to have stronger characters than others, insisting on coming first on all occasions; but gradually she became more proficient, and though she never came to the use of all her fingers on the keyboard, she began to do well enough with four of them and a thumb.

But the second obstacle was less easy for her to get over.

“Such words,” she said one evening, “they would never get printed, and I can’t put down things like that. I don’t believe they ever happened. I will not write this Marseille bit, we’ll leave that out.”

“We will not,” said the captain.

“I will,” said Lucy.

“Then I won’t go on,” said the captain, “this is my story and I’ll damn well have it my way. Such things should be shown up.”

“I see no need for it,” said Lucy.

“Well, I do,” said the captain. “My book is going to be a true record, and it will show the black side as well as the white.”

“I don’t believe such things happen,” repeated Lucy obstinately.

“You said that before,” said the captain, “it’s a sign of old age creeping on when you make the same remark twice in as many minutes, and you don’t want to have a pauper’s funeral, so you’d best get on with my book. And these things do happen and far worse, and they’ll happen again to other young fellows in foreign ports unless they are warned.”

“If you had read something in a book, would that have stopped your going to this—this——”

“Brothel,” said the captain, “don’t mince words, Lucia. If there’s a good old English word, use it.”

“Would you have been stopped going there, merely because you read about such things in a book?” persisted Lucy.

“I might,” answered the captain. “At least I’d have been on my guard. I wouldn’t have thought I was being asked home to tea by a nice French girl.”

“Was that what you really thought?” asked Lucy.

“Yes,” replied the captain, “it was my first voyage and I was only sixteen, and I had spent all my life in a country village, brought up by a maiden aunt and educated by an ancient vicar, and what they didn’t know about life would fill an encyclopaedia. Now for heaven’s sake get on with it,
Lucia, and stop havering—where was I? Marseille is different to any——”

“Different from,” said Lucy.

“To or from, what in heaven’s name does it matter?” shouted the captain. “This isn’t a literary epic, it’s the unvarnished story of a sailor’s life.”

“It’s certainly unvarnished,” agreed Lucy.

“Well, smear on your own varnish,” retorted the captain. “Change the grammar all you damn well want to as long as you leave the guts under it.”

“Perhaps it would be better,” said Lucy, “if I took it all down in long-hand first and then typed it. I can write very fast.”

“I don’t care how you do it,” said the captain, “but you’ll have to read over to me what you type, I don’t trust you an inch. And if there’s one more crack out of you, I’m through——Marseille is different to any other port in Europe.…”

Lucy could hear his voice moving up and down the room, as if he were walking a quarter-deck. She tried to picture him as a young man and as a small boy. In the first chapter of his book he had described his childhood. His father had been a ship’s mate and had been lost at sea when the captain had been six years old, and his mother had died a year later, and he had been sent to live with an aunt in the country. He must have been like a whirlwind coming into the calm of her life, with his love of danger and all persecuted things. He had climbed all the tallest trees and the steeple of the church, and had filled her house with mongrel puppies and half-drowned kittens; yet she must have grown fond of him, because when she died she left him all her money to buy his own ship.

The captain went on talking as her thoughts wandered.

“All these nice people,” he said explosively, “sitting at home on their beam-ends, revelling in all the luxuries the
sailors bring them, despising the poor devils if they so much as take a drop of rum, and even sneering at the people who do try and do them any good. Are you very tired?” he suddenly broke off.

“No,” said Lucy, “I’m not tired, thank you.”

“Well, what are you looking so pensive about?” he asked.

“I was just thinking about you when you were small,” she answered, “and wondering what you were like.”

“My God! Isn’t that just like a woman!” he said. “I suppose you haven’t heard a word of what I was saying.”

“Oh, yes, I heard you,” said Lucy, “and I expect you are quite right.”

There was silence for a few moments, and then he said gruffly, “And what do you think I was like?”

“I think,” said Lucy softly, “that you must have been a bad little boy, and that your aunt must have felt very lonely with her clean carpets.”

By bullying and persuasion and the very real need for the money the book might bring, Captain Gregg hurried her along night after night, keeping her up till all hours, tapping away at the typewriter.

Fortunately Cyril, who came home for a month’s convalescence, was a heavy sleeper; but one night he did wake, and, going downstairs to get himself a hot drink, heard her typing in her bedroom and came in.

“My dear mother,” he said, peering at her short-sightedly for he had forgotten to put on his glasses, “what are you doing? It looks almost as if you were writing a book!”

“Yes,” said Lucy, hastily bundling the papers together. They were at chapter eight, dealing with native dances in Bali-Bali at the time.

“My dear little mother,” said Cyril affectionately, coming close to put an arm around her shoulders as she quickly pulled the cover over the typewriter and the page it contained, “you are writing a book! Whatever for?”

“To try and make a little money,” said Lucy, clasping the manuscript to her in an untidy heap.

“I had no idea you could write,” Cyril said.

“Neither had I—go back to bed, dear, or you will catch cold.”

“It’s a very warm night,” said Cyril, “and I’m not sleepy.” Drawing his dressing-gown about his knees, he seated himself in the armchair.

“What is the book about?” he asked kindly.

“Oh, I don’t think it would interest you,” said Lucy hastily.

“A girl’s story?” asked Cyril.

“No,” said Lucy. “I do wish you’d go back to bed, you know the doctor said you must take care of yourself.”

“I am taking care of myself,” said Cyril, “I’m very comfortable here and quite warm. Go on typing, I won’t talk, or perhaps I could help you—read out your notes for you to type.”

“No—no, thank you,” cried Lucy violently.

“Well, it was only a suggestion to try and help you,” said Cyril in a hurt voice.

“It’s very kind of you, dear,” said Lucy, “but I’m a little nervous to-night and I don’t like being watched while I’m at work.”

“You mustn’t overdo it, mother,” said Cyril. He was very kind, thought Lucy, and completely unaware of ever being in the way. “Dear little mother,” went on Cyril sentimentally, “working away so hard to make money for me.”

“And for Anna,” said Lucy, angered by his complacency.

“Oh, of course,” said Cyril, stiffening as he always did at any mention of Anna’s name, “but don’t count too much on getting your book published—I mean so many women are writing books nowadays.”

“This is different,” said Lucy, stung almost beyond caution by his superior tone.

“I’m sure it is,” smiled Cyril. “I understand,” he went on, “that the title of a book is always important. What are you going to call this great work?”

“It’s a secret,” said Lucy, “the whole book is a secret and I’m not writing under my own name—I don’t think the Bishop would like the book,” she added slyly.

“Writing is very different from painting your face or displaying the naked body in the limelight,” Cyril said coldly.

“I don’t see why,” argued Lucy; “personally I think displaying the naked mind between pasteboard covers can do far more harm.”

“Sometimes you say the most extraordinary things,” said Cyril. “Are you displaying your naked mind in this book?”