A silent witness
Gradually the breeze died away into a dead calm, so that we had
presently to let go the anchor to avoid drifting on to a great
sand-bank which now lay between us and the land. And here we remained
not only for the rest of the day and the succeeding night, as the
skipper had promised, but throughout the whole of the next day and
following night.
I have already remarked on the incalculable chances by which the
course of a man’s life is determined. Looking back now, I see that the
skipper’s little miscalculation and his failure to cross the Woolpack
Shoal into the inshore channel, was an antecedent determining the most
momentous consequences for me. For had the barge been becalmed in the
inshore channel, I could, and should, have landed in the boat and
returned home forthwith; and if I had, certain events would not have
happened and my life might have run a very different course. As it
was, miles of sea and the great bank known as the Margate Sand, lay
between me and the shore; whence I was committed to the wanderings and
dallyings of the barge as irrevocably as if we were crossing the
Pacific.
We lay, then, in the Queen’s Channel, outside Margate Sand, for two
whole days and nights; during which time the skipper and Abel slept
much and smoked more, and young Ted, having cleaned and dried my
clothes, inducted me into the art of bottom-fishing. On the third day,
a faint breath of breeze enabled us to crawl round the North Foreland,
and the skipper having elected to pass outside the Goodwin, managed to
get becalmed again in the neighbourhood of the East Goodwin Lightship.
A little breeze at night enabled us to move on a few miles farther;
and so we continued to crawl along at intervals, mainly on the tide,
until nine o’clock in the morning of the fifth day, when we finally
crawled into Folkestone Harbour.
As soon as the barge was brought up to a buoy, young Ted was detailed
to put me ashore in the boat. The skipper and Abel had insisted on
treating me as a guest, and I had perforce to accept the position. But
young Ted had no such pride; and when I ran up the wooden steps by the
old fish-market, I left him on the stage below, staring with an
incredulous grin at a gold coin in his none-too-delicate palm.
I was not sorry to be landed in this unfashionable quarter of the
town, for in spite of young Ted’s efforts, my turn-out left much to be
desired, especially in the matter of shirt-cuffs and collar, and I
was, moreover, hatless and somewhat imperfectly shaved. Accordingly, I
slunk inconspicuously past the market and the groups of lounging
fishermen, and when I saw a well-dressed, lady-like woman preceding me
into the little narrow street, known as the Stade, I slackened my pace
so as not to overtake her. She sauntered along with a leisurely air as
if she were waiting for something or somebody, and this and the fact
that she carried a light canvas portmanteau and a rug, suggested to me
that she was probably travelling by the cross-channel boat which was
due to start presently.
Suddenly my attention was diverted from her by a loud chattering and a
series of shouts. A small crowd of men and women ran excitedly past
the end of the little street. The clattering rapidly drew nearer; and
then a horse, with a light van, swept round the corner and passing
under an archway, advanced at a furious gallop. Evidently the horse
had bolted and now, mad with terror, dashed forward with trailing
reins, zigzagging erratically and making the van sway to and fro, so
that it took up the whole of the narrow street. The few wayfarers
darted into doorways and sheltered corners, and I was about to secure
my own safety in a similar manner, when I noticed that the woman in
front of me had apparently become petrified with terror, for she stood
stock still, gazing helplessly at the approaching horse. It was no
time for ceremony. The infuriated animal and the swaying van were
thundering up the street like an insane Juggernaut. With a hasty
apology, I seized the woman from behind, and half-dragged,
half-carried her to the opening of a little yard beside a sail-loft.
And even then, I was hardly quick enough, for as the van roared past,
some projecting object struck me between the shoulders and sent me
flying, face downwards, on to a pile of tarred drift-net.
I had had the presence of mind to let go, as I was struck, so that my
fair protegée was not involved in my downfall; but in a moment, she
was stooping over me, and with many expressions of concern,
endeavouring to help me to rise. Beyond a thump in the back, however,
I was not hurt in the least, but picked myself up, grinning and turned
to reassure her. And then I really did get a shock; for as I turned,
the woman gave a shriek and fell back on the steps of the sail-loft,
gasping, and staring at me with an expression of the utmost
astonishment and terror. I supposed the accident had upset her nerves;
but to be sure, my own received, as I have said, a pretty severe
shock. For the woman was Mrs. Samway.
We remained for a moment or two gazing at one another in mute
astonishment. Then I recollected myself, and advanced to shake hands;
but to my discomfiture, she shrank away from me and began to sob and
laugh in an unmistakably hysterical fashion. I must confess that I was
somewhat surprised at these manifestations in so robust a woman as
Mrs. Samway. Unreasonably so, indeed, for all women-kind are more or
less prone to hysteria; but whereas the normal woman tends to laugh
and cry, the weaker vessels develop inexplicable diseases, with a
tendency to social reform and emancipation.
I put on my best bedside manner, at once matter-of-fact and
persuasive. “You seem quite upset,” I said, “and all about nothing,
for the poor beggar of a horse must be half a mile away by now.”
“Yes,” she answered shakily, “it’s ridiculous of me, but it was so
sudden and so--” here she laughed noisily, and as the laugh ended in a
portentous sniff, I hastened to continue the conversation.
“Yes, it was a bit of a facer to see that beast coming up the street
as if it was Tottenham Corner. Why on earth didn’t you get out of the
way?”
“I am sure I don’t know,” she answered. “I seemed to be paralyzed and
idiotic and--” here the laughter began again.
“Well,” I interrupted cheerfully, “you didn’t get rolled on those
tarred nets, so that’s something to be thankful for.”
This was a rather unlucky shot, for the semblance of facetiousness
started a most alarming train of giggles, interrupted by rather loud
sobs; but at this point, a new curative influence made itself
manifest. Two smack boys halted outside the opening and surveyed her
with frank interest and pleased surprise. Simultaneously, an elderly
mariner appeared at the door of the sail-loft, grasping a black bottle
and a tea-cup, and rather shyly descending the steps, suggested that
“perhaps a drop o’ sperits might do the lady good.”
Mrs. Samway bounced off the steps, her hitherto pale cheeks aflame
with anger. “I am making a fool of myself,” she exclaimed. “Let us go
away from here.”
She walked out into the street, and I, having thanked the old
gentleman for his most efficacious remedy, followed. As soon as I
caught her up, she turned on me quickly and held out her hand.
“Good-bye, Dr. Jardine,” she said, “and thank you so very much for
risking your life for a--for a wretched giggling woman.”
“Oh, you’re not going to send me packing like this,” I protested,
“when we’ve hardly said good morning. Besides, you’re not fit to be
left. But you’re not to begin laughing again,” I added, threateningly,
for an ominous twitching of her mouth seemed to herald a relapse, “or
I shall go back and get that black bottle.”
She shook her head impatiently, but without looking at me. “I would
rather you went away, Dr. Jardine,” she said in an agitated voice. “I
would, really. I wish to be alone. Don’t think me ungracious. I am
really most grateful to you, but I would rather you left me now.”
Of course there was nothing more to be said. She was not really ill or
in need of assistance, and probably her instinct was right. Hysteria
is not one of those affections which waste their sweetness on the
desert air. I shook her hand cordially and, advising her to keep out
of the way of stray vans and horses, once more pursued my way towards
the town, meditating as I went, on the oddity of the whole affair. It
was an astonishing coincidence that I should have run against this
woman in this out of the way place. I had left her but a few days
since apparently firmly rooted in the Hampstead Road, and now, behold,
as I step ashore from the barge, she is almost the first person that I
meet. And yet the coincidence, which had evidently hit her as hard as
it had me, like most coincidences, tended to disappear on closer
inspection. The only really odd feature was my own presence in
Folkestone. As to Mrs. Samway, she had probably been sent for by her
husband, and was crossing by the boat that was now due to start.
Her anxiety to get rid of me was more puzzling, until I suddenly
remembered my bare head, my crumpled collar and generally raffish and
disreputable appearance. The latter was, in fact, at this moment
brought to my notice by a man, with whom, in my preoccupation, I
collided; who first uttered an impatient exclamation and then,
bestowing on me a quick stare of astonishment, muttered a hasty
apology and hurried past. The incident emphasized the necessity for
some reform, and I mended my pace towards the region of shops in a
very ferment of uncomfortable self-consciousness.
With the purchase of a new hat, a collar, a pair of cuffs, a neck-tie,
a pair of gloves and a stick, some faint glimmer of self-respect
revived in me. I was even conscious of a temptation to linger in
Folkestone and spend a few hours by the sea; but a sense of duty,
aided by a large, muddy stain on my coat, finally decided me to return
to town at once. Accordingly, having sent off a telegram to my
landlady and ascertained that a train left for London in about twenty
minutes, I betook myself to the station.
There were comparatively few people travelling by this particular
train; in fact, when I had established myself with the morning paper
in the off-side corner seat of a smoking compartment, I began, with an
Englishman’s proverbial unsociability, to congratulate myself on the
prospect of having the compartment to myself, when my hopes were
dashed by the entrance of an elderly clergyman; who not only broke up
my solitude, but aggravated the offence by quite unnecessarily seating
himself opposite to me. I was almost tempted to move to another
corner, for my length of leg gives an added value to space; but it
seemed a rude thing to do; and as the train moved off at this moment,
I resigned myself to the trifling discomfort.
My clerical friend was a somewhat uncommon-looking man, with a
countenance at once strong and secretive; a rectangular, masterful
face, with a bull-like dew-lap and a small, and very sharp, Roman
nose. On further inspection, I decided that he was either a
High-Church parson or a Roman Catholic priest. His proceedings seemed
to favour the latter hypothesis, for the train was barely out of the
station before he had whisked out of his pocket an
ecclesiastical-looking volume, which he opened at a marked place, and
instantly began to read. I watched him with inquisitive interest, for
his manner of reading was very singular. There was something habitual,
almost mechanical, about it, suggesting an allotted and familiar task,
and a lack of concentration that suggested a corresponding lack of
novelty in the matter. As he read, his lips moved, and now and again I
caught a faint whisper, by which I gathered that he was reading