Volume Two—Chapter Two.
Chris Visits the Museum.
Racing did not agree with Chris Lisle, for the morning after his return from town he rose with a bad headache; and as he lived one of the most regular lives, he knew that it could not be caused by errors of diet. It would have been easy enough to have attributed it to the true cause—constant worry—but he was not going to own to that, as it seemed weak, so he set it down to his hair being too long.
“No wonder my head’s hot,” he said to himself; and, acting upon impulse, he hurried out of the room, and walked straight along the cliff road toward where, a few minutes before, Michael Wimble had had his head out of his door, looking for customers, after the fashion in which a magpie looks about for something to secrete.
He was a dry, yellow-looking man, thin, quick and sharp in action as the above-named bird, one to which his long nose and quick black eyes gave him no little resemblance; and this he enhanced by his habit of thrusting his head out of his door, laying his ear on his shoulder, and looking sidewise in one direction, then changing the motion by laying his other ear upon the fellow shoulder, and looking out in the opposite direction.
The Danmouth people, as a rule, always looked straight out to sea in a contemplative fashion, in search of something which might benefit them—fish, a ship in distress, flotsam and jetsam; but Michael Wimble looked for his benefits from the shore, and seldom gazed out to sea.
His place of business was called generally “the shop,” in spite of an oval board bearing upon it, in faded yellow letters upon a drab green ground, the word “Museum” as an attraction to any strangers who might visit the place, and be enticed by curiosity to see what the museum might contain, as well as by a printed notice pasted on each door-post, “Free admission.” Once within, they might become customers for shaving, haircutting, a peculiar yellow preparation which Michael Wimble called “pomehard,” or some of the sundries he kept in stock, which included walking-sticks, prawn nets, fishing lines, and white fish hooks, made of soft tinned iron, so that, if they caught in the rough rocky bottom, or some stem of extra tough seaweed, a good tug would pull them through it—bending without breaking—a great advantage and saving, so long as they did not behave in this way with a large fish.
Michael Wimble was very proud of his museum, and took pleasure in telling the seaside visitors that he had collected all his curiosities himself, and very much resented upon one occasion its being called a “Marine store” by a gentleman from town.
The museum began as a labour of love, for Michael had cast his eyes upon the fair elderly motherly widow, Chriss landlady, and, since the commencement of his collection, he had laboured on, in the belief that, as it increased in importance, so would the woman soften toward him; and that some day all his four-roomed dwelling would become museum and business place, while he would go and reside at the widow’s house—widow no longer, but Mrs Wimble—his own.
The beginning of the museum was a star-fish, with four small rays and one of enormous size, that he picked up during his regular morning walk along the sea shore, wet or dry, summer or winter, at six o’clock, as near to the edge of the water as he could get, returning close under the cliffs in time to have his place of business opened by eight.
The star-fish was duly dried and admired, and talked about by his regular customers; and this seemed so satisfactory that it was soon supplemented by a cuttlefish bone.
A piece of wood well bored by teredoes followed. Then a good-sized chump of ship timber, with a cluster of barnacles attached, was carried in one morning to commence the fine, fusty, saline, sea-weedy odour which smothered completely the best hair oil, the pomade and the scented soap.
The museum grew rapidly: hanks of seaweed, more cuttlefish bones, native sponges, shells of all sorts and sizes, some perfect, and some ground thin and white by long chafing in the shingle. Stones of all kinds, from spar to serpentine, and grey and ruddy granite; sharks’ teeth, pieces of mineral of metallic lustre, fragments of spar, and fossils, including great ammonites, chipped out of a bed of rock which presented its water-washed face to the advancing tide.
There was always something to bring home to suspend from the wall, arrange on shelf, or give a place of honour in one or other of the glass cases, which by degrees were purchased; and as Wimble’s museum increased, so it became of local celebrity.
Michael Wimble had been peering out when a customer appeared, and after due soaping and softening with hot water, the barber was operating with a thin razor, which scraped off the harsh bristles off the fisherman with a peculiar metallic ring.
The final triumphant upper scrape was being given when Chris entered the museum, and the barber’s eyes twinkled, for there were signs about Chris which suggested a new customer, one who was in the habit of getting his professional aid in the county town.
“At liberty in a moment, sir,” said the barber obsequiously; and he rapidly wrung out a sponge, removed the unscraped-off soap from the fisherman’s face, and threw a towel at him with a look which seemed to say, “Take that and be off.”
“Nyste mornin’ this, Mis’ Lisle, sir,” said the fisherman, wiping his face slowly. “Long time since you’ve had a run after the bahss.”
“Yes, ’tis,” said Chris shortly.
“Ay, ’tis as you say, sir, that it is; but when you feel in the right mind you’ve only got to say so, and I’m your man, punt and all.”
“Cut or shave, sir?” said the little barber, with a look at his regular customer which seemed to say, “Go.” And he went.
“Cut,” said Chris laconically; and he took his seat in the operating chair.
The barber looked disappointed as he drew his professional print cloth round his customer, giving it a shake, and then securing it about his neck like a Thug with a new victim.
“Much or little off, sir?” continued Wimble, with a preliminary snip in the air.
“Much; but don’t make it a confounded crop,” said Chris sourly; for he had a natural dislike to the barber, and was vexed with himself for not having had his hair cut in London.
“Much, but not too much,” said Wimble thoughtfully; and then, with the customary chatter of his profession, he started a topic.
“Been up to the quarry, sir, lately?”
“No.”
That was a negative strong enough to have crushed some men, but it only acted as a spur on the proprietor of the museum.
“Then I should advise you to go up, sir. I was there this morning, just casting an eye round for spars and crystals, and natural hist’ry specimens in general, and Mr Gartram’s men have blasted out some of the finest stones I think I ever saw.”
Wimble waited for an answer, but none came; and, after a little snipping, which was all done with the operator’s head very much on one side, he continued—
“Fine property, that of Mr Gartram’s, sir. Grand estate.”
Chris felt as if he would have liked to gag the barber with his own lather brush. But he sat still, holding his breath while the man prattled on.
“You said much off, sir? yes, sir; very good plan, sir; keeps the head cool, and after a wash or a shampoo, just a rub with the towel and there you are. I often admire our visitor, Mr Glyddyr, for that, sir.”
Chris flinched.
“Don’t be alarmed, sir; only the scissors touched the skin; cold steel, sir. Keeps his hair very short, sir; quite like a Frenchman. Wonderfully fond of our town, sir. His yacht’s always here.”
Chris grunted, and wished he had not come to have his hair cut, as the man innocently prattled on.
“If I might take the liberty of saying so, why don’t you take to a yacht?”
“Can’t afford it,” said Chris bluntly.
Wimble uttered a little laugh that suggested disbelief.
“They do say, sir, as this Mr Glyddyr is making up to Miss Gartram, sir.”
Chris set his teeth hard. He could not jump up and run out of the place with his hair half cut.
“And that Mr Gartram is set upon it, sir. Well, it’s a fine opening for any young man, I’m sure. Mr Gartram must have a deal of money up yonder. I often wonder he has never been robbed—that’s it, sir. The other side, please: thank you. Stone walls and bolts and bars are all very well, but, as I said to Doctor Asher when I was cutting him the other day—If a man wants to commit a robbery, stone walls and iron bars is no use. ‘No, sir,’ I says, ‘there’s sure to be times when doors is open and iron bars undone, and those are the times that a thief and a robber would choose.’”
“Humph!” ejaculated Chris. “So you think there are times when a man might easily rob Mr Gartram?”
“I do, sir, indeed; and if you’ll believe me there, I wouldn’t have his money and live as he does for anything.”
“Ah, well, I won’t believe you,” said Chris drily.
“But you may, sir. Yes, sir, it isn’t safe to live with so much money in your house.”
“Well, I’ll tell Mr Gartram what you say.”
The scissors dropped on the floor with a crash, and Wimble stood, wide-eyed, and harrowing his thin whiskers with his comb.
“What’s the matter?”
“I beg pardon, sir,” faltered the barber; “you said—”
“That I’d tell Mr Gartram.”
“I—I—I beg your pardon, Mr Lisle, sir; don’t do that. Mr Gartram’s my landlord—a hard man, sir, in paint and repairs; and if he knew that I’d said such a thing about him being robbed or murdered, why, I do believe, sir, he’d turn me out of house and home.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Chris gruffly. “Lesson to you to hold your tongue.”
This was so decided a rebuff that Wimble frowned, picked up his scissors, and went on snipping in silence for nearly half a minute, when the desire to talk, or habit of using his jaws in concert with the opening and shutting of his scissors, mastered him again.
“If I might be so bold as ask, sir, Mrs Sarson quite well?”
“Yes, quite well.”
“Most amiable woman, sir,” said the barber, “Her house always seems to me as if it might take a prize—so beautifully kept, sir—so delicately clean.”
“Yes.”
“I often wonder she hasn’t married again.”
Chris had heard hints from his landlady about an offer of marriage from the owner of the museum, but it had slipped from his memory till now, when the suggestive remark brought it all back, and a mischievous spirit seemed to enter into him.
He could not find it in his heart to bully the man, whose prattling gossip was a part of his trade, but he could vex him and revenge himself in another way for the annoyance Wimble was inflicting, and with boyish love of mischief he replied—
“Yes; so do I. But perhaps it is probable.”
Wimble checked his scissors as they were half-way through a tuft of hair.
“Indeed, sir?” he said, as he went on snipping. “Yes; of course you, being, as you may say, one of the family, and living on the premises, would know.”
“Yes,” said Chris, in a tone suggestive of much knowledge; and then there was an interval of snipping, and Wimble coughed.
“If one might say so, sir,” he said, “that was a most gallant act of yours the other day.”
“Eh? What was?”
“Swimming out after that handsome French lady, and saving her life.”
“Pooh! Nonsense!” said Chris pettishly.
“But it was, sir. People talk about it a deal.”
“More fools they.”
“Yes, sir; but people will talk.”
“Yes,” said Chris meaningly; “they will.”
“Yes, sir; and it’s wonderful what a man will go through for a woman’s sake—I mean a gentleman for a lady.”
“You miserable little pump,” muttered Chris to himself.
“Elderly gentleman, or young, sir?” said Wimble insinuatingly.
“Eh? What do you mean?”
“What you said, sir, about Mrs Sarson, sir—her future, sir.”
“Oh, you mustn’t ask me, Mr Wimble. It would be very much out of place for me to say anything. Done?”
“One minute, sir. Anything on, sir? Lime cream?”
“No; just a brush.—Thanks; that will do.—Good morning.”
Trifling words do a great deal of mischief sometimes, and Chris Lisle’s had the effect of making the owner of the museum stand at his door with his head sidewise, watching his last client till he was out of sight, and as he went down the street, dark thoughts entered his mind about age and good looks and opportunity; of the result of his own observations in life as to the weakness of elderly ladies for youth; and one by one ideas came into his mind such as had never been there before.
“If it does turn out so,” he muttered, as he slowly went back into his place of business, and apostrophised the head of a huge dog-fish which had been preserved and furnished with two glass eyes, asquint, and whose drying had resulted in a peculiar one-sided smile; “yes, if it does turn out so, I hope, for his sake and mine, he will not come here to be shaved.”
His thoughts had such a terrible effect upon Michael Wimble, that he took a razor from where it reposed in one of a series of leather loops against the wall, opened it, seized a leather strap which hung by one end from a table, and began to whet the implement with a degree of savage energy that was startling.
Chris had his hair cut, and his head felt easier, but the barber’s did not.