The Master Craftsman

I should very much like to tell you exactly what Robert said, and what Frances said, and how he played the wooer, and how she accepted the wooing. I cannot, however, for the very sufficient reason that I have not been told by either what passed between them. It is enough that Frances accepted as her husband this man of the people, who will remain a man of the people, though he has joined a party, and now fights under the banner of his party, and is almost the party chief. He will remain a man of the people, working for them in legislation so far as laws can help, which is not much: by teaching, by addresses, by writing. He can never cast off the early conditions of his life, nor get rid of the early impulses, nor forget the nobler ambitions. What was it that Frances said? The lesser nature puts the reward first and the work second; the nobler nature puts the work first and the reward second. There lies before him, unless accident prevents, a long and perhaps a successful career; the labours of the future may wear him out, though this kind of work seems to prolong life and strength; he will have beside him a woman as strong as himself in her way, full of sympathy with his work, full of admiration for his strength; a woman who loves him all the more, perhaps, because he needs not so much as some men do, the support and encouragement of love. I think of them, not as those who cling together like the columns of a cathedral aisle, but as those who stand together side by side; but the man looks out upon the world, and the woman looks up towards the man.

And now there only remains to tell you about the diamonds.

Robert brought her down to Wapping. She came to tea with us—the homely bourgeois five o’clock meal which Isabel prepared, just as she had prepared the little banquet for my first visit. I laughed when I saw once more this noble spread: the plate of ham in slices, the plate of shrimps, the cakes—half a dozen kinds of cake—the biscuits, the muffins, the buttered toast, the thin bread-and-butter. Isabel saw nothing to laugh at; nor, indeed, was there. Tea, considered as a meal, is most properly graced by these delightful accompaniments. And it is the principal meal, the most social meal of the greater part of our people, and the greater part of the American people.

To this feast, then, came the Lady Frances. She came dressed like a queen, with wonderful lace and embroidery. She looked like a queen, gracious and kindly. Isabel had put on a plain white dress. She had never looked better—my dainty mistress—than when she stood, so simple and so sweet, beside that reginal woman.

‘George has told me about you,’ said Frances, taking Isabel’s hand. ‘I have been wanting to make your acquaintance. My dear, we shall be cousins; we must be great friends.’ So she stooped and kissed her, and I could see that she was pleased with my simple maid of Wapping Old Stairs.

Then the Captain was presented, and behaved as an honest old sailor should: full of admiration of so much beauty and grandeur, and not afraid.

Frances took off her hat, and we all sat down to tea, and were cheerful. The talking was conducted chiefly by Frances and myself. Robert sat silent, preoccupied. Only from time to time he lifted his eyes and rested them for a moment on Frances with a softer light in them than I had ever seen before. Love doth tame speedily the most masterful of men.

Tea despatched, I took Frances over the way to see the Yard. I thought that Robert would perhaps like to say something to Isabel. What he did say was very simple and straightforward. He said, quite meekly, in the presence of the Captain: ‘Isabel, I thank you for the release. You have forgiven me, I am sure, for what was meant for the best—a great mistake, a great cruelty to you, as now I understand.’

‘Oh yes,’ she said; ‘it was impossible. Why did you not let me know before? But there is nothing to forgive. The gratitude remains, Robert, and the obligation; and you will be very happy, I am sure.’

‘Believe me, Isabel,’ he replied humbly, ‘I could not be happy unless I was sure you were happy too, in the same way.’

As for me, Frances spoke very gracious words. ‘George,’ she said, not pretending in the least to be interested in the ribs of a barge which we were building—yet a beautiful barge—‘you have brought me to this place of chips and shavings for no other purpose than merely to ask me what I think of her. Well, she seems a sweet and lovely girl; and she loves you, George. I saw it in her eyes and in her voice. What do you chiefly desire of life, George? Love and tranquillity, is it not?’

‘Indeed, Frances, there seems nothing better to desire.’

‘Then you will have the desire of your heart. But, George, if you have sons, remember that you have a hereditary title. Rank has its uses, and yours may be useful to them. Perhaps your sons may aspire. I can perfectly understand how Robert came to make so great a mistake—who could bear to think of that delicate creature turned out upon the world?—and I understand why Robert desired his release; and I understand as well, my dear George, that your Isabel will make you perfectly happy.’

Looking at this little speech as it is written down in cold language, I perceive that it has a suspicion of condescension in it, as if Isabel was good enough for me, and not good enough for Robert. But one cannot convey the manner of the words, which was wholly sweet and sisterly.

So she glanced round the shed, and stepped to the edge of the quay, and looked up and down the river.

‘It is all impossible, George,’ she said. ‘I cannot understand how Robert came out of such a place, or how you could go into it. Why, it is nothing more than a kind of carpenter’s shop.’

‘By your leave, Frances, a boat-builder’s yard. Chips and chunks and shavings belong to the craft of carpenter, it is true, but to that of boat-builder as well.’

‘Well, I am glad that Robert is out of it. I confess, my dear George, that I could not live down here, nor can I promise to come here often—perhaps never again. All this side of life, with the warehouses, the ships, the wharves, the waggons, seems to me to belong to the Service. The place is kitchen, scullery, pantry, cellars. You and I were born in the class that is served, not in the Service. I do not want so much as to see the kitchen. Yet you—well, I say no more. Curiosity brought you here, an interesting couple made you stay here, love has chained you here. Let us go back to the others.’

The moment had arrived for my surprise, which I had arranged with the greatest care, so as to produce a fine dramatic effect. I took the party into the study. On the rug before the fireplace stood old John Burnikel’s sea-chest, hidden by a table-cover. No one in the house, not even Isabel, knew what I was doing. And even Isabel did not know why I did it.

‘This, Frances,’ I said, ‘is Robert’s study. In this room he learned all he knows.’

‘It is a beautiful old room. I had no idea that there could be among these warehouses so lovely a house. This wainscoting is worthy of any house, however fine. So this was your room, Robert, was it?’

‘This was my room. What have you got on the floor, George?’

‘You shall see directly, as soon as Frances has done admiring the walls. Sit down, Frances; sit down, Isabel. I am going to show you something of interest. Now, Robert, remember the last talk we had. We spoke of obstacles—did we not?—in the way of a certain event of some importance to you.’

‘Yes, we did.’

‘I told you that the first obstacle was waiting for your wish to be expressed. Is that obstacle removed?’

‘It is.’

‘The second obstacle was a difference in birth and social position which cannot be removed, but may be trampled upon.’

‘We have trampled upon it,’ said Frances, for her lover looked at her. ‘Robert has forgotten that there ever existed this apparent, not real, obstacle.’

‘There remains the third obstacle. Shall I remind you of what you said?’

‘I said that it would choke me to live upon my wife’s money.’

‘And now you say?’

‘Let me say it for him.’ She still held her hand upon his shoulder. Yes, I am quite right: she will not cling to her husband, she will stand beside him—the Queen Consort. ‘Robert forgot that wealth is nothing. It can give me no more than a house, and servants, and carriages. It is of no other use to me. But it may be of use to Robert, and he takes it—with me. It is a part of me; he takes me altogether, just as I am. The woman herself, with her heart, and her soul, and her thoughts, and her abilities, if she has any, and with the woman her rank, and her family, and her wealth. Is that so, Robert?’

‘It is so, Frances,’ he replied humbly.

‘Wealth may be useful to such a man as Robert. It is good for such a man to have a well-appointed house. Freedom from money anxieties with some men is almost a necessity. Do you not agree, Robert?’

‘You have made me understand,’ he said. ‘I thought I was asserting my independence when I was only betraying narrow prejudice. That you—you should give me money shames me no more now than that you should give me yourself, and that will shame me always.’ Oh, the change in Robert, that he should say this!

‘You know, you two,’ Frances went on, ‘I want Robert to become a great man. It is his ambition, and it is mine as well. I want him to become greater—far greater—than he allows himself to dream. I want him to be such a leader of men as has not been seen for many a century in this country. He must never be accused of mean or sordid motives; never be led aside by temptations which ruin smaller men. Oh! be certain that he will become what I think he may become. I would give not only all my heart and all my soul and all my strength and all my wealth—which is nothing—but I would give my very life—my heart’s blood—at this moment to make him great.’ She laid her hand upon his shoulder; he stooped and kissed her forehead, and in his softened eye I saw—oh, the wonder of it!—actually a tear! In Robert’s eyes, a tear! This foolish love makes schoolgirls of us all. And Frances was splendid—she was splendid.

‘Well,’ I said, after a moment, ‘things being as they are, I am inclined to stop. However, we must carry this thing through to the end. I understand, Robert, that you no longer desire that kind of equality of which we spoke the other day.’

‘No longer,’ he replied. ‘I would rather owe everything to—Frances.’ It was quite pretty to notice how he dropped his voice at the very mention of her name. ‘Everything,’ he repeated.

‘I am truly sorry, Robert,’ I continued, ‘to disturb an arrangement which is so beautiful. But when I told you that the obstacle of comparative income was removed, I meant more than its removal by Frances, though of that I was certain. I meant, my cousin, that I was able to place in your hands a fortune which would go far at least to equalize things.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Robert.

‘I am now going to show you. In fact, Robert, I am about to restore to you, as the sole and rightful heir, the family fortune.’

‘The family fortune? What is that?’

‘Oh, basest of Burnikels! He has forgotten the lost bag of jewels.’

With these words I removed the tablecloth and exposed the sea-chest.

‘The jewels? Is it possible that you have found them?’

‘It is more than possible. Isabel, dear child, help me to take out the contents of the chest.’

We took out everything—the sextant, the Indian things, the mummified flying-fish, the odds and ends, and laid them on the floor.

‘I have done that a hundred times,’ said Robert.

‘What is the bag of jewels?’ asked Frances.

‘It is a bag full of the most lovely precious stones,’ I told her. ‘Our great-great-uncle, John Burnikel, master mariner, possessed this treasure. How he got it I do not know. That is, a knowledge of the truth came to me in a dream, and I do know. Some day I will tell you. He used to say himself that an Indian Rajah, presumably the Great Mogul of Delhi, took him into his treasury and bade him fill his pockets with jewels in return for some signal services rendered to the Mogullian Dynasty. Well, he died, and his nephews could not find that bag anywhere, and nobody has ever been able to find it—until now. It was reserved for me to make this discovery. Is the box quite empty, Isabel? One moment. The nephews quarrelled over the loss, Frances; they fought, I believe; they dissolved partnership. One was my great-grandfather, and the other was Robert’s. That’s all the history. Now, you will observe that the box and all that it contains belongs to Robert. His great-grandfather bought or took over the old mariner’s furniture. His own father bequeathed it to him. The box with all its contents, therefore, without any possible doubt, or dispute, is his own. Now, then, you’ve got nothing to say to that, I suppose, Robert?’

‘I suppose not. But why so fierce?’

‘Very good. I thought you might begin advancing absurd objections about other people’s imaginary rights. It’s all yours. And now look at the box. Do you see any possible hiding-place in it, Frances? See. It is empty; the sides are papered. I hold it up and turn it over. There are two compartments, both of the same depth. Is there any possibility of a hiding-place?’

‘I can see none,’ said Frances; ‘but, of course, there must be. You are like a conjurer before he shows his trick. Why don’t you turn up your sleeves, and assure us that there is no deception?’

‘What do you think, Robert?’

‘I have thought of a false bottom, and I have measured. I used to think that there is no possibility of a hiding-place. But I am now convinced that there must be, otherwise you would not talk in this way.’

‘Well, look along the lower line of the pattern at the back—the thick dark line. Can you discern nothing?’

‘No, no. Yet there seems to be a line not in the paper. What is that?’

‘You shall see.’ So I knelt down, opened my knife, and slowly passed it along the almost invisible junction of the shutter or lid of which you have heard. This widened the opening.

‘There is a secret pocket, after all!’ cried Robert.

‘There is. This is a lid with a spring which keeps it tightly pressed. You do not look for hinges at the bottom of the box, and you do not observe the line of juncture. I think it is one of the most admirable hiding-places I ever saw, and I have seen a good many. Now, Robert, I pull open this lid. You see this side of the chest is made of wood much thicker than the other side; also, if you look at the outside, you will observe that it widens at the bottom. The widening is designed by the cabinet-maker who made this excellent box, for in it he has cut out a narrow little cupboard in which anything could be hidden, and where nothing could be suspected. In this cupboard’—I pulled open the lid—‘look, Robert—lies the bag.’

I took out the bag. It was, as I have told you, more like one of those long round things which they lay on the windows in order to keep out the draught. I gave it to Robert. ‘There is your fortune, Robert. You are the heir to the family fortune. It is yours, and yours only.’

He received the bag with the awkwardness of one who has the most unexpected thing in the world sprung upon him.

‘Pour out the contents, man,’ I said. ‘Let us see your treasure.’

He poured out the glittering contents on the table. There they were—diamond, ruby, emerald, turquoise, pearl, opal, chalcedony, and the rest; of all sizes from a seed pearl to a ruby as big as a pigeon’s egg; diamonds worth thousands; pearls worth the ransom of an earl.

‘Oh, heavens!’ cried Frances. ‘What are we to do with all these things?’

‘They are yours,’ said Robert. ‘Let me give them all to you.’

‘No; they are your fortune. They are yours. Stay, I will take them, Robert, in case at any time you may want something—I know not what. Oh! after all these years that you should find them, George! Oh! but you should have some of them.’

‘Take half of them, George.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Your house is the best place for them, Frances. We will have none of them. Put all back in the bag—so.’ I tied the mouth. ‘Take it home with you, Frances. In the High Street of Wapping-on-the-Wall we want no diamonds—do we, Isabel?’

So she consented and took the jewels, greatly marvelling. And, lo! it was time for them to go. So we said farewell.

‘We shall see each other seldom, Frances,’ I said. ‘We are setting off along roads that never meet. Perhaps in the years to come we may try to meet, if only to ask each other whether the tranquil life is better than the fight and struggle.’

So the two women kissed with tears, and Robert gave me his hand, and they left me down at Wapping-on-the-Wall—a Master Craftsman—with Isabel.

THE END.

BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.