A scene in the hospital, and a strange discovery.

In a very few days Bramble and Bessy were sufficiently recovered to resume their usual avocations; but the former expressed no willingness to embark again, and Bessy’s persuasions assisted to retain him at the cottage. With me it was different: I was still restless and anxious for change; my feelings toward Bessy were those of admiration and esteem, but not yet of love. Yet I could not help recalling to mind the words of Bramble, “Observe how she performs those duties which fall to her lot; if she is a good daughter she will make a good wife.” I felt that she would make a good wife, and I wished that I could have torn from my bosom the remembrance of Janet, and have substituted the form of Bessy in her place. We had been at the cottage nearly a week, when I received a letter from Anderson; he informed me that he had visited old Nanny, who had made her will in due form, and confided it to him, and that he thought that she was more inclined to listen to him than she had before been; that my father and mother and sister were well, and that Spicer had been obliged to go into the hospital with an abscess in his knee, occasioned by running something into it, and that it was reported that he was very ill, and, in all probability, amputation must take place. I felt convinced that Spicer must have, in his hasty retreat, fallen over the iron railings which lay on the ground, and which had, as I mentioned, tripped me up; but with this difference, that, as the spikes of the railing were from me; and consequently I met with little injury, they must have been towards him, and had penetrated his knee, and thus it was that he had received the injury. Anderson also stated that they were very busy at the hospital, receiving the men who had been maimed in the glorious battle of Trafalgar. Altogether, I made up my mind that I would take the first ship that was offered for pilotage up the river, that I might know more of what was going on; and, as we sat down to supper, I mentioned my intentions to Bramble.

“All’s right: Tom, you’re young, and ought to be moving; but just now I intend to take a spell on shore. I have promised Bessy, and how can I refuse her anything, dear girl? I don’t mean to say that I shall never pilot a vessel again, but I do feel that I am not so young as I was, and this last affair has shaken me not a little, that’s the truth of it. There’s a time for all things, and when a man has enough he ought to be content, and not venture more. Besides, I can’t bear to make Bessy unhappy; so, you see, I’ve half promised—only half, Bessy, you know.”

“I think you would have done right if you had promised altogether,” replied I; “you have plenty to live upon, and are now getting a little in years. Why should you not stay on shore, and leave them to work who want the money?”

Bessy’s eyes beamed gratefully towards me, as I thus assisted her wishes. “You hear, father,” said she, fondling him, “Tom agrees with me.”

“Ah!” replied Bramble, with a sigh, “if—but we cannot have all we wish in this world.”

Bessy and I both felt what he would have referred to, and we were silent. She cast down her eyes, and appeared busy with her fork, although she was eating nothing. I no longer felt the repugnance that I had a short time before, and I was in deep reverie, watching the changes of her beautiful countenance, when she looked up. Our eyes met: she must have read my thoughts in mine, for from that moment each hour increased our intimacy and confidence. We were no longer afraid of each other.

A day or two after this conversation an opportunity was given to me of going up the river, which I did not neglect; and having delivered up charge of the ship, I hastened down to Greenwich. I found everything in statu quo at my mother’s house, and Virginia much pleased at there being no lodgers. Anderson I met walking with Ben the Whaler and my father. He told me that Spicer had refused to have his leg amputated, when the surgeon had pointed out the necessity of the operation; and that it was now said that it was too late to have the operation performed, and that there was little or no chance of his recovery. They asked me many questions relative to the narrow escape of Bramble, and the behaviour of Bessy.

As soon as I could get away, I set off to the hospital to see Spicer; for, as the reader must be aware, I had many reasons for having communication with him,—not that I expected that at first he would acknowledge anything: I knew that his heart was hardened, and that he had no idea of his danger; but I had his secret,—he was indeed in my power, and I hoped by terrifying him to obtain the information which I wished.

I found him in bed, in the corner of the hospital ward, to the left. He was looking very pale, and apparently was in great pain.

“Spicer,” said I, “I have come to see you; I am sorry to hear of your accident. How is your leg? is it better?”

“No, not much,” replied he, writhing, “I am in great pain; another man would scream out with the agony, but I’m like the wolf,—I’ll die without complaint.”

“But you don’t think that you’re going to die, Spicer?”

“No, Jack, I don’t think that; I never have thought that, when I have been worse than now. I’ll never believe that I’m dead until I find myself so. It must come some time or another, but I’m hale and hearty in constitution as yet, and my time is not yet come.”

“It was the iron railings which you fell over, was it not? I fell over them myself the same night when I landed, on the Monday, going up to old Nanny’s.”

“Who told you it was those cursed spikes? Well, well, so it was; but not on the Monday, Jack, it was on the Wednesday.”

“Nay, that cannot be; for on the Tuesday, as I went down to the beach, I saw them all fixed up in the stonework, and soldered in. It must have been on the Monday—the night on which old Nanny was nearly smothered by some one who went in to rob her. I came there just in time to save her life; indeed, if you recollect, you were lame the next day, when I met you in the hospital.”

“Well, Jack, you may think what you please; but I tell you it was on the Wednesday.”

“Then you must have fallen over something else.”

“Perhaps I did.”

“Well, it’s of no consequence. I’m glad to find that you re so much better, for I was told that the doctor had said—”

“What did the doctor say?” interrupted Spicer.

“Why, it’s better to tell the truth; he said it was impossible for you to get over it; that the inflammation was too great to allow of amputation now, and that it must end in mortification.”

“He said that!” said Spicer, wildly, raising himself on his elbow.

“Yes, he did; and it’s known all over the hospital.”

“Well,” replied Spicer, “he may have said so; but I think I ought to know best how I feel. He’ll be here in half an hour or so, and then I’ll put the question to him. I’m a little tired, Jack, so don’t speak to me any more just now.”

“Shall I go away, Spicer?”

“No, no, stay here. There’s a book or two; read them till I feel a little stronger.”

That my communication had had an effect upon Spicer was evident. He was startled at the idea of the near approach of death, which he had not contemplated. Alas! who is not? He shut his eyes, and I watched him; the perspiration trickled down his forehead. I took up the book he had pointed out to me; it was the History of the Buccaneers, with plates, and I thought then that it was a parallel of Spicer’s own career. I looked at the plates, for I was not much inclined to read. In a few minutes Spicer opened his eyes. “I am better now, Jack; the faintness has passed away. What book is that? Oh, the Buccaneers. That and Dampier’s Voyages were the only two books of my father’s library that I ever thought worth reading. Have, you ever read it?”

“No,” replied I, “I never have. Will you lend it to me?”

“Yes; I’ll give it to you, Jack, if you like.”

“Thank you. Was your father a sailor, Spicer, as well as you?”

“Yes, Jack; a sailor, every inch of him.”

“Did you ever sail with him?”

“No, he died about the time that I was born.”

Here the doctor, who was going round the wards, came up to Spicer, and asked him how he felt. “Pretty well, doctor,” said he.

“Come, we must look at your leg, my man; it will require dressing. Is it very painful?”

“Why, yes, sir; it has been very painful indeed all night.”

The hospital mates unbandaged Spicer’s leg, and took off the poultices, and I was horrified when I saw the state which his leg was in: one mass of ulceration from the middle of the thigh down to half-way below his knee, and his ankle and foot swelled twice their size, a similar inflammation extending up to his hip. The doctor compressed his lips, and looked very grave. He removed some pieces of flesh, it was then cleaned, and fresh poultices put on.

“Doctor,” said Spicer, who had watched his countenance, “they say in the hospital that you have stated that I cannot live. Now, I should wish to know your opinion myself on this subject, as I believe I am the most interested party.”

“Why, my man,” said the doctor, “you certainly are in great danger, and if you have any affairs to settle, perhaps it will be prudent so to do.”

“That’s a quiet way of saying there is no hope for me; is it not, doctor?” replied Spicer.

“I fear, my good man, there is very little.”

“Tell me plainly, sir, if you please,” replied Spicer; “is there any?”

“I am afraid that there is not, my good man; it’s unpleasant to say so, but perhaps it is kindness to tell the truth.”

“Well, sir, that is honest. May I ask you how long I may expect to live?”

“That will depend upon when the mortification takes place, about three days; after that, my poor fellow, you will probably be no more. Would you like the chaplain to come and see you?”

“Thank you, sir; when I do I’ll send for him.”

The doctor and the attendants went away to the other patients. I was silent. At last Spicer spoke.

“Well, Jack, you were right; so it is all over with me. Somehow or another, although I bore up against it, I had an inkling of it myself, the pain has been so dreadful. Well, we can die but once, and I shall die game.”

“Spicer,” said I, “that you will die without fear I know very well; but still, you know that you should not die without feeling sorry for the sins you have committed, and praying for pardon. We have all of us, the very best of us, to make our peace with Heaven; so, had I not better tell the chaplain to come and talk with you?”

“No, Jack, no; I want no parsons praying by my side. What’s done is done, and can’t be undone. Go now, Jack, I wish to get a little sleep.”

“Shall I come and see you to-morrow, Spicer?”

“Yes, come when you will; I like to have some one to talk to; it keeps me from thinking.”

I wished him good day, and went away with the book in my hand. Before I went home. I sought out old Anderson, and told him what had passed. “He will not see the chaplain, Anderson, but perhaps he will see you; and, by degrees, you can bring him to the subject. It is dreadful that a man should die in that way.”

“Alas for the pride of us wretched worms!” ejaculated Anderson; “he talks of dying game,—that is to say, he defies his Maker. Yes, Jack, I will go and see him; and happy I am that he has a few days to live. I will see him to-night, but will not say much to him, or he might refuse my coming again.”

I went home. I was not in a very gay humour, for the sight of Spicer’s leg, and the announcement of his situation, had made a deep impression upon me. I sat down to read the book which Spicer had made me a present of. I was interrupted by my mother requesting me to go a message for her, and during my absence Virginia had taken up the book.

“Who lent you this book, Tom?” said she, when I returned.

“Spicer, the man whom they call Black Sam, who is now dying in the hospital.”

“Well, that’s not the name on the title-page—it is Walter James, Tynemouth.”

“Walter James, did you say, dear? Let me look! Even so.”

“Why, what’s the matter, Tom?” said my sister; “you look as if you were puzzled.”

And indeed I do not doubt but I did, for it at once recalled to my mind that old Nanny’s married name was James, and that Spicer had said that his father was a sailor, and that he had died at the time that he was born, which agreed with the narrative of old Nanny. The conclusions which I came to in a moment made me shudder.

“Well, my dear, I was surprised, if not frightened; but you don’t know why, nor can I tell you, for it’s not my secret. Let me look at the book again.”

Here my father came in, and the conversation took a different turn, which I was not sorry for. I wished, however, to be left to my own reflections; so I soon afterwards took up my candle and retired to my room.

I turned the subject over in my mind in a hundred ways, but could not come to any conclusion as to the best method of proceeding. At last I thought I would see Peter Anderson the next day, and take his advice. I was out immediately after breakfast; but I could not find Anderson, so I walked to the hospital to see Spicer. I found Anderson sitting by his bed-side, but they were not then conversing. After a short time Anderson rose, and giving a slight shake of the head, as if to inform me that he had had no success, he walked away.

“He has been trying to convert me,” said Spicer, with a grim smile.

“He has been trying, Spicer, to bring you to a sense of your condition; and is he not kind? he can have no interest but your own good. Do you think that no one knows the sins you have committed except yourself?—there is one eye which sees all.”

“Come, Jack, no preaching.”

“Spicer, you are here under a false name, and you think no one knows anything about you; but everything has been discovered by me; and I cannot help thinking that it has been made known providentially, and for your good.”

“Ah!” replied Spicer, “and pray what do you know? Perhaps you can tell me all the sins I have committed.”

“No, Spicer, but perhaps I can tell you of sins which you yourself are not aware of. But first answer me—you know that you cannot live long, Spicer; will you acknowledge that what I state is correct, should it really be so?”

“I give you my word, that if you tell me anything about me which is true, I will freely acknowledge it; so now, Mr Fortune-teller, here’s my hand—it may be useful, you know, in helping your discovery.”

“I do not want your hand, Spicer;—now hear me. Is not your name James?—and were you not born at Tynemouth?”

Spicer started. “How did you find that out? Well, Tom, it is so, and what then?”

“As you told me yourself, although I knew it before, your father was lost at sea about the time that you were born. Spicer, I know how you left your mother, and how you returned from you know where—how you robbed her of every farthing, and left her again destitute and in misery. Is there nothing to repent of in that, Spicer?”

“Who the devil—”

“Nay, Spicer, the devil has had nothing to do with the discovery.”

“Strange, strange indeed,” muttered Spicer; “but still, it is true.”

“Spicer, you know best how your life was passed from that time until you came into the hospital; but it was to be hoped, that when laid up to rest in this haven, after such a stormy life, you would have amended your life; but what have you done?”

“And what have I done?”

“What would have brought you to the gallows if I had not held my tongue. You attempted to murder the old woman to obtain her money, and, in escaping, you received the wound which soon will bring you to your grave.”

“What proofs?”

“Every proof: your stump struck me in the face when you rushed out—the button was off your coat the next morning when I met you—I had every proof, and, had I chosen, would have sworn on the Bible to your having been the party.”

“Well, I’ll not deny it—why should I, when I cannot be taken out of this bed to be tried, even if you wished? Have you more to say?”

“Yes, more.”

“I doubt it.”

“Then hear me. The poor woman whom you would have murdered, whom I found at her last gasp, and with difficulty restored to consciousness, that poor woman, Spicer, is your own mother!”

“God of Heaven!” exclaimed he, covering his face.

“Yes, Spicer, your fond indulgent mother, who thinks that you suffered the penalty of the law many years ago, and whose energies have been crushed by the supposed unhappy fate of her still loved and lamented son. Spicer, this is all true, and have you now nothing to repent of?”

“I thought her dead, long dead. God, I thank Thee that I did not the deed; and, Jack, I am really grateful to you for having prevented it. Poor old woman!—yes, she did love me, and how cruelly I treated her!—and she is then still alive, and thinks that I was hanged—yes, I recollect now, she must think so. Oh! my brain, my brain!”

“Spicer, I must leave you now.”

“Don’t leave me, Jack—yes, do,—come to-morrow morning.”

“Spicer, will you do me a favour?”

“Yes.”

“Will you see Anderson, and talk with him?”

“Yes, if you wish it; but not now: this evening I will, if he’ll come.”

I left Spicer well satisfied with what had passed, and hastened to Anderson, to communicate it to him.

“A strange and providential discovery, Tom, indeed,” said he, “and good use it appears to me you have made of it: his heart is softened, that is evident. I will certainly go to him this evening.”

Chapter Forty Four.

Spicer discloses strange matters.

The next day, when I called to see Spicer, I found him in great pain. Anderson had been with him, but he had been in such agony that he found it almost impossible to converse with him. Spicer did not like that I should leave him, although he could not talk, and I therefore remained by his bedside, occasionally assisting him to move from one position to another, or to take the drink that was by his bedside. Towards the evening he became more easy, and went to sleep: I left him, therefore, till the next day. As I supposed, the mortification had commenced, for the doctor told him so the next morning, when he visited him, and the chaplain pointed out to him that all hopes of living were now over. Spicer heard the communication unmoved. He asked the doctor how long he might live, and his reply was, it was possible four or five days, and that he would feel no more pain. He was now able to listen to Anderson, and he did so. I shall not trouble the reader with repeating what Anderson imparted to me, as I can give him an idea of Spicer’s feelings by what passed between us.

“Tom,” said he, “I have led a very wicked life, so wicked, that I hate to think of it, and I hate myself. I believe all that Anderson and the chaplain tell me, and I find that I may hope and do hope for mercy; but I can’t cry, or wail, or tear my hair. The fact is, Tom, I can’t feel afraid: if I am pardoned, and I do scarcely expect it, I shall be all gratitude, as well I may. Should I be condemned, I shall acknowledge my punishment just, and not complain, for I have deserved all; but I cannot feel fear: I believe I ought; but it is not in my nature, I suppose.”

“But you do not feel anything like defiance, Spicer?”

“No, God forbid! no, nothing like that, but my spirit cannot quail.”

He was very anxious for the chaplain the last two days of his life, and I really believe was sincere in his repentance; but before I wind up his history, I will narrate to the reader those portions of his life which are unknown, and which are necessary to the explanation of other matters.

He told me that when he first went to sea, he had joined a vessel employed in the slave trade, that he had left it at Gambia, and shipped on board of a vessel which was about to cruise on the Spanish Main. He was some time in her, and had been appointed second officer, when he resolved to fit out a vessel and cruise for himself. He had therefore quitted the vessel at Surinam, and worked his passage home in a sugar ship.

It was on his return home this time, that, as old Nanny had told me, he had taken to gaming, and eventually had robbed his mother. With the two thousand pounds in his pocket, he had repaired to Liverpool, where he fell in with Fitzgerald, a young man who had served as first mate in the vessel in which they had cruised on the Spanish Main, and to him he had proposed to join him as first officer in the vessel which he was about to fit out. It appeared that this young man had but a few days returned from Ireland, where he had married a young woman, to whom he had been some time attached, and that his disinclination to leave his young wife made him at first refuse the offer made by Spicer. Spicer, however, who was aware of his value, would not lose sight of him, and contrived, when Fitzgerald had taken too much wine, to win of him by unfair means about one thousand five hundred pounds. Spicer then offered Fitzgerald a release from the debt, provided he would sail with him; and he exacted as a further condition that he should not return and take a farewell of his wife. To these harsh terms Fitzgerald, being without means of liquidating the debt, consented, and they sailed accordingly.

“And now, Jack, I will tell you why I was so curious about that spy-glass. I knew the moment that I saw it in your hands that it was one that belonged to Fitzgerald when we were on our first cruise together. It was the best glass I ever met with. When we left Liverpool this time, I asked him for the spy-glass, and he told me that, expecting to return to his wife before he sailed, he had left it at home. How it came into the lady’s hands I can’t tell.”

“I never said that Lady Hercules gave it to me,” replied I; “although I did not undeceive you when you thought so. The fact is, it was given me by a very pretty young Irish widow.”

“Then, Jack, I should not wonder if she was not the wife of Fitzgerald, whom I have been talking about; but that I leave to you. Let me finish my story. When we arrived on the Spanish coast I had as fine a crew with me as ever were on board of a vessel; but I had long made up my mind that I would hoist the black flag. Yes, Jack, it is but too true. But when I proposed it, Fitzgerald declared that the first act of piracy that was committed he would leave the vessel. I tried all I could to persuade him, but in vain. However, we did take an English vessel, and plundered her. Upon this Fitzgerald protested, and half the crew, at least, joined him. I threatened the men to shoot them through the head; but they were resolute; and, being rather the stronger party, I dared not make any attempt. They insisted upon leaving the vessel; and I, not being able to help it, landed them all in the Bay of Honduras, where I thought it very possible they would be taken by the Spaniards and imprisoned, if not hanged. They were imprisoned; but, after some time, they were released. The desertion of Fitzgerald and the other men left me with my vessel half manned; and I vowed vengeance against him if ever I had an opportunity. I now cruised as a pirate, and was very successful, and my name was a terror to those seas. A high reward was offered for me, dead or alive, which pleased me much, and I became more murderous than ever. Jack, all this rises up in judgment against me now; and I recollect every single life taken away by me, or by my orders, as well as if I had noted them down in a book. May God forgive me!” continued Spicer, covering his eyes up for a time.

After a pause he continued: “I had ordered a vessel with a valuable cargo to be taken on a rendezvous we had in the Caicos; but it was recaptured and taken into Port Royal, Jamaica. As the proofs of the piracy were well established, the men on board were thrown into prison to take their trial. I heard of this, for I was often on shore in disguise in one island or another, and a scheme entered my head which I thought would benefit myself and wreak my vengeance upon Fitzgerald. But I must leave off now. Here comes the chaplain; he promised to talk with me this evening, and you see that I have changed my opinion on that point, praised be God for it. Good night, Jack; come to-morrow.”

Chapter Forty Five.

Spicer’s death.

When I saw Spicer again he continued his narrative:

“I told you that I was anxious to wreak my vengeance upon Fitzgerald, and the plan which I hit upon was as follows: I contrived to get to Port Royal, and to speak to the two men whom I had been on the best terms with. I told them that the only chance of escape would be for them to give their names as those of James, which was mine, and of Fitzgerald, the first officer; and I explained to them why; because Fitzgerald and I had saved the life of the daughter of one of the chief planters, who, in gratitude, had promised that he would assist us if we were ever in difficulty. I told them that they must adhere to what they said, as they would be condemned with the others, but that a reprieve would be given when they were on the scaffold.”

“But why should you have done this?” inquired I.

“First, because I wished people to believe that I was dead, that there might not be so great a hue and cry after me, and the temptation of so high a reward; next, because I knew that Fitzgerald was still in prison, and that his wife would read the account of his execution in the newspapers, which I hoped would break her heart, and so make him miserable.”

“Oh, Spicer, that was too cruel.”

“It was, but my plan succeeded. The men gave our names, went to the scaffold expecting a reprieve, and were hanged.”

“And thus it is that your poor mother thinks even now that you were hanged,” said I.

“Even so, Jack, even so. Well, after a time I quitted my vessel and returned to England; for I was actually tired of bloodshed, and I had collected a great deal of money. On my arrival I inquired after Fitzgerald. It appeared that his wife had heard the account of his execution; and, as her bonnet was found by the side of the mill-dam, it was supposed that she had destroyed herself. Fitzgerald returned home, and was distracted at the intelligence. I have always thought that she was dead; but, by what you say, Jack, I now doubt it.”

“And Fitzgerald, Spicer, what became of him?”

“I really cannot tell. I heard that he had entered on board of a King’s ship, but not under his own name: how far that was true or not I cannot say; but I have every reason to believe that such was the case.”

“And how came you on board of a man-of-war?”

“Why, that’s soon told. I spent my money, or lost it all in gambling, went out again, obtained command of a vessel, and did well for some time; but I was more tyrannical and absolute than ever. I had shot five or six of my own men, when the crew mutinied, and put me and two others who had always supported me in an open boat, and left us to our fate. We were picked up by a frigate going to the East Indies when we were in the last extremity. And now, Jack, I believe you have my whole history. I am tired now, and must go to sleep; but, Jack, I wish you to come to-morrow morning, for I have something to say to you of great importance. Good bye, Jack; don’t forget.”

I promised Spicer that I would not fail, and quitted the hospital. When I called again upon him, I found him very low and weak, he could not raise himself from his pillow. “I feel that I am going now, Jack,” said he—“going very fast—I have not many hours to live, but, I thank Heaven, I am not in any pain. A man who dies in agony cannot examine himself—cannot survey the past with calmness, or feel convinced of the greatness of his offences. I thank God for that; but, Jack, although I have committed many a foul and execrable murder, for which I am full of remorse—although I feel how detestable has been my life—I tell you candidly, that, although those crimes may appear to others more heavy than the simple one of theft, to me the one that lies most heavy on my soul is the robbing of my poor mother, and my whole treatment of her. Jack, will you do one favour to a dying man?—and it must be done soon, or it will be too late. Will you go to my poor mother, acquaint her with my being here, still alive, and that my hours are numbered, and beg for me forgiveness? Obtain that for me, Jack—bring that to me, and so may you receive forgiveness yourself!”

“I will, Spicer,” replied I, “I will go directly; and I have little fear but that I shall succeed.”

“Go then, Jack; don’t tarry, for my time is nearly come.”

I left the hospital immediately, and hastened to old Nanny’s. I found her very busy sorting a lot of old bottles which she had just purchased.

“Well, Jack,” said she, “you are just come in time to help me. I was just a-saying if Jack was to call now, he’d be of some use, for I can’t well reach so high as the shelf where I put the bottles on, and when I get on a stool my old head swims.”

“Mother,” said I, “suppose you put down the bottles for a little while, as I have that to say to you which must not be delayed.”

“Why, what’s the matter, boy? And how pale you look! what has happened? You don’t want money, do you?”

“No, mother, I want no money; I only want you to listen to matters important, which I must disclose to you.”

“Well, well, what is it? about the fellow who tried to rob me, I suppose. I told you before, Jack, I won’t hurt him, for my poor boy’s sake.”

“It is about your poor boy I would speak, mother,” replied I, hardly knowing how to begin. “Now, mother, did you not tell me that he was hanged at Port Royal?”

“Yes, yes; but why come and talk about it again?”

“Because, mother, you seem to feel the disgrace of his being hanged so much.”

“Well, to be sure I do—then why do you remind me of it, you bad boy? It’s cruel of you, Jack; I thought you kinder.”

“Mother, it is because you do feel it so much that I have come to tell you that you have been deceived. Your son was not hanged.”

“Not hanged! Why, Jack, are you sure?”

“Yes, mother, quite sure.”

“Not hanged, quite sure—”

Here old Nanny burst out into a wild laugh, which ended in sobbing and tears. I was obliged to wait some minutes before she was composed enough to listen to me; at last I said, “Mother, I have more to say, and there is no time to be lost.”

“Why no time to be lost, my dear boy?” said she. “Oh! now that you have told me this, I could dwell for hours—ay, days—more. I shall dwell my whole life upon this kind news.”

“But listen to me, mother, for I must tell you how I discovered this.”

“Yes, yes, Jack—do, that’s a good boy. I am quite calm now,” said Nanny, wiping her eyes with her apron.

I then acquainted her with what Spicer had told me relative to his inducing the man to take his name, and continued the history of Spicer’s life until I left him on board of a man-of-war.

“But where is he now? And who told you all this?”

“He told me so himself,” replied I. “He has been in the hospital some time, and living here close to you, without either of you being aware of it. But, mother, he is now ill—very ill in the hospital; he would not have confessed all this if he had not felt how ill he was.”

“Deary, deary me!” replied old Nanny, wringing her hands; “I must go see him.”

“Nay, mother, I fear you cannot. The fact is that he is dying, and he has sent me to ask your forgiveness for his conduct to you.”

“Deary, deary me!” continued old Nanny, seemingly half out of her wits; “in the hospital, so near to his poor mother,—and dying. Dear Jemmy!”

Then the old woman covered up her face with her apron and was silent. I waited a minute or two, and then I again spoke to her.

“Will you not answer my question, mother? Your son has but an hour perhaps to live, and he dies penitent not only for his conduct to you, but for his lawless and wicked life; but he feels his treatment of you to be worse than all his other crimes, and he has sent me to beg that you will forgive him before he dies. Answer me, mother.”

“Jack,” said Nanny, removing the apron from her face, “I feel as if it was I who ought to ask his pardon, and not he who should ask mine. Who made him bad?—his foolish mother. Who made him unable to control his passions?—his foolish mother. Who was the cause of his plunging into vice—of his intemperance, of his gaming, of his wild and desperate career—which might have ended, as I supposed it had done, on the gallows—but a foolish, weak, selfish mother, who did not do her duty to him in his childhood? It is I who was his great enemy—I who assisted the devil to lead him to destruction—I who, had he been hanged, had been, and have felt for years that I was, his executioner. Can I forgive him! Can he forgive me?”

“Mother, his time is short—I will come to you again, and tell you much more. But if you knew how earnest he is to have your forgiveness before he dies, you would at once send me away to him.”

“Then go, my child—go, and may you often be sent on such kind missions! Go, and tell my poor James that his mother forgives him—begs to be forgiven—still dotes upon him—and God knows with how much pleasure would die for him! Go quick, child—the sands of the glass run fast—quick, child—the dying cannot wait—quick—quick!”

Nanny had risen from her stool and taken me by the arm; when we were clear of the threshold she loosed me, and sank down to the earth, whether overcome by her feelings, or in a state of insensibility, I did not wait to ascertain—I fled to execute my mission before it was too late.

In a few minutes I was at the hospital—breathless, it was true. I went in, and found Spicer still alive, for his eyes turned to me. I went up to him; the nurse, who was standing by him, told me he was speechless, and would soon be gone. I told her I would remain with him, and she went to the other patients. I gave him his mother’s message, and he was satisfied; he squeezed my hand, and a smile, which appeared to illumine like a rainbow his usual dark and moody countenance, intimated hope and joy; in a few seconds he was no more, but the smile continued on his features after death.

I then returned to old Nanny, who, I found, had been put into bed by some neighbours, and at her bedside was Mrs St. Felix, who had been passing by and had observed her situation. She was now recovered and quiet. As soon as they had left her I entered into a more full detail of how I became acquainted with the circumstances which led to the discovery. I did not conceal from her that it was her own son who had attempted the robbery; and I wound up by stating that he had died, I really believed, not only penitent, but happy from having received her forgiveness.

“Jack—Jack—you have been as good as an angel to me, indeed you have. It was you also who prevented my poor James from killing his mother—it is you that have been the means of his making his peace with Heaven. Bless you, Jack, bless you!”

Chapter Forty Six.

In which Mrs St. Felix refuses a splendid offer which I am duly empowered to make to her.

I left old Nanny as soon as she was more composed, for I was so anxious to have some conversation with old Anderson. I did not call on my father, as it was not a case on which he was likely to offer any opinion, and I thought it better that the secret which I possessed should be known but to one other person. I refer to the knowledge which I had obtained relative to the husband of Mrs St. Felix, who, it appeared, was not hanged, as supposed by her. The information received from Spicer accounted for Mrs St. Felix’s conduct when any reference was made to her husband, and I was now aware how much pain she must have suffered when his name was mentioned. I found Anderson alone in his office, and I immediately made him acquainted with what I had learnt, and asked him his opinion as to the propriety of communicating it to Mrs St. Felix. Anderson rested his head upon his hand for some time in silence; at last he looked up at me.

“Why, Tom, that she suffers much from the supposed ignominious fate of her husband is certain, but it is only occasionally; her spirits are good, and she is cheerful, except when reminded of it by any casual observation. That it would prove a great consolation to her to know that her husband did not forfeit his life on the scaffold is true; but what then? he is said to have entered the King’s service under another name, and, of course, there is every probability of his being alive and well at this moment. Now she is comparatively tranquil and composed; but consider what anxiety, what suspense, what doubts, must ever fill her mind, must oppress her waking hours, must haunt her in her dreams, after she is made acquainted with his possible existence. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick; and her existence would be one of continued tumult, of constant anticipation, and I may say of misery. He may be dead, and then will her new-born hopes be crushed when she has ascertained the fact; he may never appear again, and she may linger out a life of continual fretting. I think, Tom, that were she my daughter, and I in possession of similar facts, I would not tell her—at least, not at present. We may be able to make inquiries without her knowledge. We know his name; an advertisement might come to his eyes or ears; and, moreover, you have the telescope, which may be of use if it is constantly seen in your hands. Let us at present do all we can without her knowledge, and leave the result in the hands of Providence, who, if it thinks fit, will work by its own means. Are you of my opinion, Tom?”

“When I came to ask your advice, Anderson, it was with the intention of being guided by it, even if it had not coincided with my own opinion, which, now that I have heard your reasons, it certainly does. By-the-bye, I have not yet called upon Mrs St. Felix, and I will go now. You will see old Nanny again?”

“I will, my boy, this evening. Good bye! I’m very busy now, for the officers will inspect to-morrow morning.”

I quitted the hospital, and had arrived in Church Street, when, passing the doctor’s house on my way to Mrs St. Felix, Mr Thomas Cobb, who had become a great dandy, and, in his own opinion at least, a great doctor, called to me, “Saunders, my dear fellow, just come in, I wish to speak with you particularly.” I complied with his wishes. Mr Cobb was remarkable in his dress. Having sprung up to the height of at least six feet in his stockings, he had become remarkably thin and spare, and the first idea that struck you when you saw him was that he was all pantaloons; for he wore blue cotton net tight pantaloons, and his Hessian boots were so low, and his waistcoat so short, that there was at least four feet, out of the sum total of six, composed of blue cotton net, which fitted very close to a very spare figure. He wore no cravat, but a turn-down collar with a black ribbon, his hair very long, with a very puny pair of moustachios on his upper lip, and something like a tuft on his chin. Altogether, he was a strange-looking being, especially when he had substituted for his long coat a short nankeen jacket, which was the case at the time I am speaking of.

“Well, Mr Cobb, what may be your pleasure with me? You must not detain me long, as I was about to call on Mrs St. Felix.”

“So I presumed, my dear sir,” replied he; “and for that very reason I requested you to walk in. Take a chair. Friendship, Tom, is a great blessing; it is one of the charms of life. We have known each other long, and it is to tax your friendship that I have requested you to come in.”

“Well, be as quick as you can, that’s all,” replied I.

“Festina lente, as Dr Tadpole often says, adding that it is Latin for hat and boots. I am surprised at his ignorance of the classics; any schoolboy ought to know that caput is the Latin for hat, and Boötes for boots. But lately I have abandoned the classics, and have given up my soul to poetry.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; ‘Friendship and Love’ is my toast, whenever I am called upon at the club. What does Campbell say?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“I’ll tell you, Tom:—

“‘Without the smile from heav’nly beauty won, Oh, what were man? A world without a sun.’”

“Well, I daresay it’s all true,” replied I; “for if a woman does not smile upon a man he’s not very likely to marry her, and therefore has no chance of having a son.”

“Tom, you have no soul for poetry.”

“Perhaps not; I have been too busy to read any.”

“But you should; youth is the age of poetry.”

“Well, I thought it was the time to work; moreover, I don’t understand how youth can be age. But pray tell me, what is it you want of me, for I want to see Mrs St. Felix before dinner-time.”

“Well, then, Tom, I am in love—deeply, desperately, irrevocably, and everlastingly in love.”

“I wish you well out of it,” replied I, with some bitterness. “And pray with whom may you be so dreadfully in love—Anny Whistle?”

“Anny Whistle!—to the winds have I whistled her long ago. No, that was a juvenile fancy. Hear me. I am in love with the charming widow.”

“What, Mrs St. Felix?”

“Yes. Felix means happy in Latin, and my happiness depends upon her. I must either succeed, or—Tom, do you see that bottle?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s laudanum; that’s all.”

“But, Tom, you forget; you certainly would not supplant your patron, your master, I may say your benefactor—the doctor?”

“Why not? he has tried, and failed. He has been trying to make an impression upon her these ten years, but it’s no go. Ain’t I a doctor, as good as he? Ay, better, for I’m a young doctor, and he is an old one! All the ladies are for me now. I’m a very rising young man.”

“Well, don’t rise much higher, or your head will reach up to the shop ceiling. Have you anything more to say to me?”

“Why, I have hardly begun. You see, Tom, the widow looks upon me with a favourable eye, and more than once I have thought of popping the question over the counter; but I never could muster up courage, my love is so intense. As the poet says—

“‘Silence in love betrays more woe Than words, howe’er so witty; The beggar that is dumb, you know, Deserves our double pity.’

“Now, Tom, I wish to tax your friendship. I wish you to speak for me.”

“What, speak to Mrs St. Felix?”

“Yes, be my ambassador. I have attempted to write some verses; but somehow or another I never could find rhymes. The poetic feeling is in me, nevertheless. Tell me, Tom, will you do what I ask?”

“But what makes you think that the widow is favourably inclined?”

“What? why, her behaviour, to be sure. I never pass her but she laughs or smiles. And then the doctor is evidently jealous; accuses me of making wrong mixtures; of paying too much attention to dress; of reading too much; always finding fault. However, the time may come—I repeat my request; Tom, will you oblige me? You ought to have a fellow-feeling.”

This last remark annoyed me. I felt convinced that Mrs St. Felix was really laughing at him, so I replied, “I shall not refuse you, but recollect that he who has been so unsuccessful himself, is not likely to succeed for others. You shall have your answer very soon.”

“Thanks, Tom, thanks. My toast, as I said before, when called upon, is ‘Friendship and Love.’”

I quitted the shop, and went into that of Mrs St. Felix, who, I thought, looked handsomer than ever.

“Come at last, Tom!” said the widow, extending her hand. “I thought you would have called yesterday. Your sister was here.”

“I have been less pleasantly engaged. You know that Spicer is dead.”

“One of the pensioners—I never saw him that I know of, but I heard old Ben mention his death this morning, and that you were with him: was he a friend of yours?”

“No, indeed, I thought you knew something of him, or I should not have mentioned his name.” I then changed the conversation, telling her what had passed at Deal, and listening to her remarks upon old Nanny, my mother, and our mutual acquaintances.

“And the doctor—how is he?”

“As busy as ever: I’m sorry, however, that he complains very much of Tom Cobb, and says that he must dismiss him. He has made some very serious mistakes in mixing the medicines, and nearly killed five or six people.”

“Had he killed them outright, their deaths must have been laid at your door,” replied I, very seriously.

“Good Heavens! what do you mean, Tom?”

“I mean this, that your bright eyes have fascinated him; and that, to use his own expression, he is deeply, desperately, irrevocably, and everlastingly in love with you.”

Here Mrs St. Felix burst out in a laugh, so violent that I thought that it would end in hysterics. As soon as she had recovered herself, continued:—

“It is all true, and independent of the five or six people half killed, you will have to answer for a whole death besides, for Tom has intimated to me that if he fails in his suit he will have recourse to the big bottle of laudanum. You must further know that he has taxed my friendship to make known to you his deplorable condition, being unequal to the task himself.”

“He must be mad,” observed Mrs St. Felix, quietly.

“He flatters himself that you have given him encouragement. I asked him in what way; he says you always laugh at him.”

“True as the Bible—I can’t help laughing at such a droll figure as he makes of himself. Mercy on me! what are men made of? Well, Tom, I’m sure I ought to be flattered, for (let it be a secret between us, Tom) this is the second offer I have received within these twenty-four hours.”

“The doctor, I presume; Tom says that he is jealous.”

“I mention no names. This is all very foolish.”

“But you have not yet rejected both: Tom awaits his answer.”

“Tell him anything that you please. By-the-bye, you may just as well add that instead of taking the laudanum, he had better resort to his old remedy—of liquorice and water. It will look just as killing in the phial, and not be quite so fatal in its results.”

“I shall certainly execute your commission in as delicate a way as I possibly can.”

“Do, Tom, and pray let me hear no more of this nonsense, for, ridiculous as it may appear, it is to me very painful. Leave me now—I am nervous and low-spirited. Good bye. Come this evening with your sister, I shall be better then.”

Mrs St. Felix went into the back parlour, and I left the shop. I had turned the wrong way, almost forgetting to give Tom his answer, when I recollected myself, and returned to the doctor’s house.

“Well?” said Tom, eagerly.

“Why,” replied I, hardly having made my mind up what to say, yet not wishing to hurt his feelings, “the fact is, Tom, that the widow has a very good opinion of you.”

“I knew that,” interrupted Tom.

“And if she were ever to marry again—why, you would have quite as good a chance as the doctor.”

“I was sure of that,” said he.

“But at present, the widow—for reasons which she cannot explain to anybody—cannot think of entering into any new engagement.”

“I see—no regular engagement.”

“Exactly so; but as soon as she feels herself at liberty—”

“Yes,” said Tom, breathless.

“Why, then she’ll send, I presume, and let you know.”

“I see, then, I may hope.”

“Why, not exactly—but there will be no occasion to take laudanum.”

“Not a drop, my dear fellow, depend upon it.”

“There is no saying what may come to pass, you see, Tom: two, or three, or four years may—”

“Four years—that’s a very long time.”

“Nothing to a man sincerely in love.”

“No, nothing—that’s very true.”

“So all you have to do is to follow up your profession quietly and steadily, and wait and see what time may bring forth.”

“So I will—I’ll wait twenty years, if that’s all.”

I wished Tom good bye, thinking that it was probable that he would wait a great deal longer; but at all events, he was pacified and contented for the time, and there would be no great harm done, even if he did continue to make the widow the object of his passion for a year or two longer. It would keep him out of mischief, and away from Anny Whistle.

On my return home I met with a severe shock, in consequence of information which my mother did not scruple to communicate to me. Perhaps it was all for the best, as it broke the last link of an unhappy attachment. She informed me very abruptly that the shutters of Mr Wilson’s house were closed in consequence of his having received intelligence of the death of Lady —. Poor Janet had expired in her first confinement, and the mother and child were to be consigned to the same tomb. This intelligence drove me to my chamber, and I may be considered weak, but I shed many tears for her untimely end. I did not go with my sister to Mrs St. Felix, but remained alone till the next day, when Virginia came, and persuaded me to walk with her to the hospital, as she had a message for my father.

After we had seen my father we walked down to the hospital terrace, by the riverside. We had not been there but a few minutes when we heard Bill Harness strike up with his fiddle:—

“Oh, cruel was my parents as tore my love from me, And cruel was the press-gang as took him off to sea And cruel was the little boat as row’d him from the strand, But crueller the big ship as sail’d him from the land. Sing tura-la, tura-la, tura-lara hey. “Oh, cruel was the water as bore my love from Mary, And cruel was the fair wind as wouldn’t blow contrary; And cruel was the captain, his boatswain, and his men, As didn’t care a farding if we never meet again. Sing tura-la, tura-la, tura-lara hey. “Oh, cruel was th’ engagement in which my true love fought, And cruel was the cannon-ball as knock’d his right eye out; He used to ogle me with peepers full of fun, But now he looks askew at me, because he’s only one. Sing tura-la, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Eh! wid your tura-la. You call dat singing?” cried Opposition Bill, stumping up, with his fiddle in his hand. “Stop a little. How you do, Mr Tom? how you do, pretty lady? Now I sing you a song, and show dat fellow how to make music. Stop a little, Miss Virginny.”

“Well,” said Bill Harness, “I’ll just let you sing, that Miss Saunders may judge between us.”

Virginia felt half inclined to go away; but as the pensioners always treated her with as much respect as any of the ladies of the officers of the hospital, I pressed her arm that she might stay. Opposition Bill then struck up as follows, saying, “Now I give you a new ‘Getting upstairs.’”

“On board of a man-of-war dey hauled me one day, And pitch me up de side just like one truss of hay. Such a getting upstairs I nebber did see, Such a getting upstairs. “Dey show me de mast head, and tell me I must go, I tumble on de rattling, and break my lilly toe. Such a getting upstairs I nebber did see, etcetera. “Dey pipe de hands up anchor, and Massa Boatswain’s cane Come rattle on our backs, for all de world like rain. Such a getting upstairs, etcetera. “And den dey man de rigging, the topsails for to reef, And up we scull together, just like a flock of sheep. Such a getting upstairs, etcetera. “Dey send de boats away, a Frenchman for to board, We climb de side with one hand, de oder hold de sword. Such a getting upstairs, etcetera. “Now here I sent to Greenwich because I lost a leg, And ab to climb up to de ward upon my wooden peg. Such a getting upstairs, etcetera.

“Dere, now; I ask you, Mister Tom, and de young lady, which sing best, dat fellow, or your humble servant Bill—dat’s me?”

“You sing very well, Bill,” said Virginia, laughing, “but I’m not able to decide such a difficult point.”

“Nor more can I; it is impossible to say which I like best,” continued I. “We must go home now, so good bye.”

“Thanky you, Mister Tom; thanky you, Missy. I see you wish to spare him feelings; but I know what you tink in your heart.”

Virginia and I now left the hospital. There was one subject which was often discussed between my sister and me, which was, my situation with regard to Bramble and Bessy. I had no secrets from her, and she earnestly advised me to try if I could not make up my mind to an union with a person of whom I could not possibly speak but with the highest encomiums.

“Depend upon it, my dear Tom,” said she, “she will make you a good wife; and with her as a companion, you will soon forget the unhappy attachment which has made you so miserable. I am not qualified from experience to advise you on this point, but I have a conviction in my own mind that Bessy is really just the sort of partner for life who will make you happy. And then, you owe much to Bramble, and you are aware how happy it would make him; and as her partiality for you is already proved, I do wish that you would think seriously upon what I now say. I long to see and make her acquaintance, but I really long much more to embrace her as a sister.”

I could not help acknowledging that Bessy was as perfect as I could expect any one to be, where none are perfect. I admitted the truth and good sense of my sister’s reasoning, and the death of Janet contributed not a little to assist her arguments; but she was not the only one who appeared to take an interest in this point: my father would hint at it jocosely, and Mrs St. Felix did once compliment me on my good fortune in having the chance of success with a person whom every one admired and praised. The party, however, who had most weight with me was old Anderson, who spoke to me unreservedly and seriously.

“Tom,” said he, “you must be aware that Bramble and I are great friends, and have been so for many years. He has no secrets from me, and I have no hesitation in telling you that his regards and affections are so equally bestowed between you and his adopted child, that it is difficult for himself to say to which he is the most attached; further, as he has told me, his fervent and his dearest wish—the one thing which will make him happy, and the only one without which he will not be happy, although he may be resigned—is that an union should take place between you and Bessy. I am not one of those who would persuade you to marry her out of gratitude to Bramble. Gratitude may be carried too far; but she is, by all accounts, amiable and beautiful, devoted to excess, and capable of any exertion and any sacrifice for those she loves; and, Tom, she loves you. With her I consider that you have every prospect of being happy in the most important step in life. You may say that you do not love her, although you respect, and admire, and esteem her: granted; but on such feelings towards a woman is the firmest love based, and must eventually grow. Depend upon it, Tom, that that hasty and violent attachment which is usually termed love, and which so blinds both parties that they cannot before marriage perceive each other’s faults, those matches which are called love matches, seldom or ever turn out happily. I do not mean to say but that they sometimes do; but, like a lottery, there are many blanks for one prize. Believe me, Tom, there is no one who has your interest and welfare at heart more than I have. I have known you since you were a child, and have watched you with as much solicitude as any parent. Do you think, then, that I would persuade you to what I thought would not contribute to your happiness? Do, my dear boy, make Bramble, Bessy, yourself, and all of us happy, by weaning yourself from the memory of one who was undeserving of you, and fixing your affections upon her who will be as steadfast and as true to you as the other was false and capricious.”

I promised Anderson that I would think seriously of what he said; and I kept my word, using all my endeavours to drive the image of Janet from my memory, and substitute that of Bessy. I often recalled the latter to my mind as she lay, beautiful and motionless after her having rescued her father from the waves, and at last dwelt upon the image with something more than interest. The great point when you wish to bring yourself to do anything is to make up your mind to it. I did so, and soon found that Bessy was rapidly gaining possession of my heart.

I remained several days at Greenwich. My mother was still as busy as ever, attempting to obtain lodgers in her house who were people of family, and this unwearied system was a source of great vexation to my sister. “Oh, Tom,” she would sometimes say, “I almost wish sometimes, selfish as it is, that you were married to Bessy, for then I should be able to live with you, and escape from this persecution.”

“Better marry yourself, dear,” replied I.

“There is but little chance of that, Tom,” replied Virginia, shaking her head.

On my return to Deal I found Bramble had remained at the cottage ever since my departure. Our greeting was warm, and when I went over to Bessy, for the first time since she had returned from school, I kissed her. She coloured up, poor girl, burst into tears, and hastened to her own room.

“I hope that was in earnest, Tom,” said Bramble, fixing his eye upon me inquiringly, “otherwise it was cruel.”

“It was indeed, father,” replied I, taking him by the hand.

“Then all’s right, and God bless you, my dear good boy. You don’t know how happy you have made me—yes, and now I will say it—poor Bessy also.”

Chapter Forty Seven.

In which a new character appears upon the stage, and I play the part of a pilot on shore.

“A frigate has anchored in the Downs, Tom, and makes the signal for a pilot,” said Bramble, coming into the cottage, with my telescope in his hand. “There is but you and I here—what do you say?—will you venture to take her up to the Medway?”

“To be sure I will, father; I would not refuse a line-of-battle ship. Why should I? the tides are the same, and the sands have not shifted. Would you not trust me?”

“Ay, that I would, Tom, and perhaps better than myself; for my eyes are not so good as they were. Well, then, you had better be off.”

I got my bundle ready, and was about to start, when I perceived my telescope lying down where Bramble had placed it on the table. “They are not very fond of letting pilots have their glasses on board of a King’s ship,” said I, “so I will take mine this time.”

“You’re right, Tom; you can’t take the spy-glass out of the captain’s hand, as you do in a merchant vessel.”

“Well, good bye, father; I shall come down again as soon as I can—there’s another gun, the captain of the frigate is in a hurry.”

“They always are on board of a man-of-war, if no attention is paid to their orders or their signals. Come, start away.”

I went down to the beach, the men launched the galley, and I was soon on board. As I gained the quarter-deck I was met by the captain and first lieutenant, who were standing there.

“Well,” said the captain, “where’s the pilot?”

“I am, sir,” replied I, taking off my hat.

“Where’s your warrant?”

“There, sir,” replied I, offering him the tin case in which I carried it.

“Well, all is right, my good fellow; but you seem but a young hand.”

“Not so young as to lose so fine a vessel as this, I trust, sir,” replied I.

“I hope not, too; and I daresay you are as good as many with grey hairs. At all events, your warrant is sufficient for me, and the frigate is now under your charge. Will you weigh directly?”

“If you please; the wind will probably fail as the sun goes down, and, if so, we may just as well lie off the Foreland to-night.”

The frigate was soon under weigh; she was evidently well manned, and as well commanded. The wind fell, as I expected, and after dark we barely stemmed the ebb tide. Of course I was up all night, as was my duty, and occasionally entered into conversation with the officer of the watch and midshipmen. From them I learnt that the frigate, which was called the Euphrosyne, had just returned from the West India station; that they had been out four years, during which they had two single-handed encounters, and captured two French frigates, besides assisting at many combined expeditions; that they were commanded by Sir James O’Connor, who had distinguished himself very much, and was considered one of the best officers in the service; that the frigate had suffered so from the conflicts in which they had been engaged, that she had been sent home to be surveyed; it was found that she must be docked, and undergo a thorough repair, and consequently they had been ordered to Sheerness, where the ship would be paid off. At daylight there was a leading wind up the river, and we made sail, carrying with us three-fourths of the flood. The discipline and order of the ship’s company were so great that I felt much more confidence in piloting this vessel, notwithstanding her greater draught of water, than I did a merchant vessel, in which you had to wait so long before the people could execute what you required: here, it was but to speak and it was done, well done, and done immediately; the vessel appeared to obey the will of the pilot as if endued with sense and volition, and the men at the lead gave quick and correct soundings; the consequence was that I had every confidence, and while the captain and officers sometimes appeared anxious at the decrease of the depth of water, I was indifferent, and I daresay appeared to them careless, but such was not the case.

“Quarter less five.”

“Quarter less five. Pilot, do you know what water we draw?”

“Yes, Sir James, I do; we shall have half four directly, and after that the water will deepen.”

As it proved exactly as I stated, the captain had after that more confidence in me. At all events, the frigate was brought safely to an anchor in the river Medway, and Sir James O’Connor went down to his cabin, leaving the first lieutenant to moor her, for such were the port orders. As I had nothing more to do, I thought I might as well go on shore, and get a cast down by one of the night coaches to Dover. I therefore begged the first lieutenant to order my certificate of pilotage to be made out, and to inquire if I could take anything down to Deal for the captain. A few minutes afterwards I was summoned down to the captain. I found him sitting at his table with wine before him. My certificates, which the clerk had before made out, were signed, but my name was not inserted.

“I must have your name, pilot, to fill in here.”

“Thomas Saunders, Sir James,” replied I.

“Well, my lad, you’re young for a pilot; but you appear to know your business well, and you have brought this ship up in good style. Here are your certificates,” said he, as he filled in my name.

I had my spy-glass in my hand, and, to take up the certificates and fold them to fit them into my tin case, I laid my glass down on the table close to him. Sir James looked at it as if surprised, took it up in his hand, turned it round, and appeared quite taken aback. He then looked at the brass rim where the name had been erased, and perceived where it had been filed away.

“Mr Saunders,” said he at last, “if not taking a liberty, may I ask where you procured this spy-glass?”

“Yes, Sir James, it was given me by a person who has been very kind to me ever since I was a boy.”

“Mr Saunders, I beg your pardon—I do not ask this question out of mere curiosity—I have seen this glass before; it once belonged to a very dear friend of mine. Can you give me any further information? You said it was given you by—”

“A very amiable woman, Sir James.”

“Did she ever tell you how it came into her hands?”

“She never did, sir.”

“Mr Saunders, oblige me by sitting down; and if you can give me any information on this point, you will confer on me a very great favour. Can you tell me what sort of a person this lady is—where she lives—and what countrywoman she is?”

“Yes, Sir James; I will first state that she is Irish, and that she lives at present at Greenwich.” I then described her person.

“This is strange, very strange,” said Sir James, with his hand up to his forehead as he leant his elbow on the table.

After a pause, “Mr Saunders, will you answer me one question candidly? I feel I am not speaking to a mere Thames pilot—I do not wish to compliment, and if I did not feel as I state, I should not put these questions. Do you not know more about this person than you appear willing to divulge? There is something in your manner which tells me so.”

“That I know more than I have divulged is true, Sir James; but that I know more than I am willing to divulge is not the case, provided I find that the party who asks the question is sufficiently interested to warrant my so doing.”

“There can be no one more interested than I am,” replied Sir James, mournfully. “You tell me she is Irish—you describe a person such as I expected would be described, and my curiosity is naturally excited. May I ask what is her name?”

“The name that she goes by at present is St. Felix.”

“She had distant relations of that name; it may be one of them—yet how could they have obtained—? Yes, they might, sure enough!”

“That is not her real name, Sir James.”

“Not her real name! Do you then know what is her real name?”

“I believe I do, but I obtained it without her knowledge, from another party, who is since dead.”

“Ah! may I ask that name?”

“A man who died in the hospital, who went by the name of Spicer, but whose real name was Walter James; he saw the glass in my hand, recognised it, and on his death-bed revealed all connected with it; but he never knew that the party was still alive when he did so.”

“If Walter James confessed all to you on his death-bed, Mr Saunders, it is certain that you can answer me one question. Was not her real name Fitzgerald?”

“It was, Sir James, as I have understood.”

Sir James O’Connor fell back in his chair, and was silent for some time. He then poured out a tumbler of wine, and drank it off.

“Mr Saunders, do others know of this as well as you?”

“I have never told anyone, except to one old and dearest friend, in case of accident to myself. Mrs St. Felix is ignorant of my knowledge, as well as others.”

“Mr Saunders, that I am most deeply interested in that person I pledge you my honour as an officer and a gentleman. Will you now do me the favour to detail all you do know on this subject, and what were the confessions made you by that man Walter James?”

“I have already, sir, told you more than I intended. I will be candid with you; so much do I respect and value the person in question, that I will do nothing without I have your assurance that it will not tend to her unhappiness.”

“Then, on my honour, if it turns out as I expect, it will, I think, make her the happiest woman under the sun.”

“You said that the spy-glass belonged to a dear friend?”

“I did, Mr Saunders; and if I find, from what you can tell me, that Mrs St. Felix is the real Mrs Fitzgerald, I will produce that friend and her husband. Now are you satisfied?”

“I am,” replied I, “and I will now tell you everything.” I then entered into a detail from the time that Mrs St. Felix gave me the spy-glass, and erased the name, until the death of Spicer. “I have now done, sir,” replied I, “and you must draw your own conclusions.”

“I thank you, sir,” replied he; “allow me now to ask you one or two other questions. How does Mrs St. Felix gain her livelihood, and what character does she bear?”

I replied to the former by stating that she kept a tobacconist’s shop; and to the latter by saying that she was a person of most unimpeachable character, and highly respected.

Sir James O’Connor filled a tumbler of wine for me, and then his own. As soon as he had drunk his own off, he said, “Mr Saunders, you don’t know how you have obliged me. I am excessively anxious about this matter, and I wish, if you are not obliged to go back to Deal immediately, that you would undertake for me a commission to Greenwich. Any trouble or expense—”

“I will do anything for Mrs St. Felix, Sir James; and I shall not consider trouble or expense,” replied I.

“Will you then oblige me by taking a letter to Greenwich immediately? I cannot leave my ship at present—it is impossible.”

“Certainly I will, Sir James.”

“And will you bring her down here?”

“If she will come. The letter I presume will explain everything, and prevent any too sudden shock.”

“You are right, Mr Saunders; and indeed I am wrong not to confide in you more. You have kept her secret so well that, trusting to your honour, you shall now have mine.”

“I pledge my honour, Sir James.”

“Then, Mr Saunders, I spoke of a dear friend, but the truth is, I am the owner of that spy-glass. When I returned to Ireland, and found that she had, as I supposed, made away with herself, as soon as my grief had a little subsided, I did perceive that, although her apparel remained, all her other articles of any value had disappeared; but I concluded that they had been pillaged by her relations, or other people. I then entered on board of a man-of-war, under the name of O’Connor, was put on the quarter-deck, and by great good fortune have risen to the station in which I now am. That is my secret—not that I care about its being divulged, now that I have found my wife. I did nothing to disgrace myself before I entered on board of a man-of-war, but having changed my name, I do not wish it to be known that I ever had another until I can change it again on a fitting opportunity. Now, Mr Saunders, will you execute my message?”

“Most joyfully, Sir James; and I now can do it with proper caution; by to-morrow morning I will be down here with Mrs St. Felix.”

“You must post the whole way, as hard as you can, there and back, Mr Saunders. Here is some money,” said he, thrusting a bundle of notes in my hand, “you can return me what is left. Good bye, and many, many thanks.”

“But where shall I meet you, sir?”

“Very true; I will be at the King’s Arms Hotel, Chatham.”

I lost no time. As soon as the boat put me on shore, I hired a chaise, and posted to Greenwich, where I arrived about half-past nine o’clock. I dismissed the chaise at the upper end of the town, and walked down to Mrs St. Felix’s. I found her at home, as I expected, and to my great delight the doctor was not there.

“Why, Mr Pilot, when did you come back?” said she.

“But this minute—I come from Chatham.”

“And have you been home?”

“No, not yet; I thought I would come and spend the evening with you.”

“With me! Why, that’s something new; I don’t suppose you intend to court me, do you, as the doctor does?”

“No, but I wish that you would give me some tea in your little back parlour, and let Jane mind the shop in the meantime.”

“Jane’s very busy, Mr Tom, so I’m afraid that I can’t oblige you.”

“But you must, Mrs St. Felix. I’m determined I will not leave this house till you give me some tea; I want to have a long talk with you.”

“Why, what’s in the wind now?”

“I’m not in the wind, at all events, for you see I’m perfectly sober; indeed, Mrs St. Felix, I ask it as a particular favour. You have done me many kindnesses, now do oblige me this time: the fact is, something has happened to me of the greatest importance, and I must have your advice how to act; and, in this instance, I prefer yours to that of any other person.”

“Well, Tom, if it really is serious, and you wish to consult me, for such a compliment the least I can do is to give you a cup of tea.” Mrs St. Felix ordered Jane to take the tea-things into the back parlour, and then to attend in the shop.

“And pray say that you are not at home, even to the doctor.”

“Well, really the affairs looks serious,” replied she, “but it shall be so if you wish it.”

We took our tea before I opened the business, for I was thinking how I should commence: at last I put down my cup, and said, “Mrs St. Felix, I must first acquaint you with what is known to no one here but myself.” I then told her the history of old Nanny; then I went on to Spicer’s recognition of the spy-glass—his attempt to murder his mother, the consequences, and the disclosure on his death-bed.

Mrs St. Felix was much moved.

“But why tell me all this?” said she, at last: “it proves, certainly, that my husband was not hanged, which is some consolation, but now I shall be ever restless until I know what has become of him—perhaps he still lives.”

“Mrs St. Felix, you ask me why do I tell you all this? I beg you to reply to my question: having known this so long, why have I not told you before?”

“I cannot tell.”

“Then I will tell you: because I did feel that such knowledge as I had then would only make you, as you truly say, unhappy and restless. Nor would I have told you now, had it not been that I have gained further intelligence on board of a frigate which I this afternoon took into the Medway.”

Mrs St. Felix gasped for breath. “And what is that?” said she, faintly.

“The spy-glass was recognised by a person on board, who told me that your husband still lives.”

I ran out for a glass of water, for Mrs St. Felix fell back in her chair as pale as death.

I gave her the water, and threw some in her face: she recovered, and put her handkerchief up to her eyes. At first she was silent, then sobbed bitterly; after a while she sank from the chair down on her knees, and remained there some time. When she rose and resumed her seat, she took my hand and said, “You may tell me all now.”

As she was quite calm and composed, I did so; I repeated all that had passed between Sir James O’Connor and me, and ended with his wish that I should accompany her at once to Chatham.

“And now, Mrs St. Felix, you had better go to bed. I told Sir James that I would be down to-morrow morning. I will come here at seven o’clock, and then we will go to the upper part of the town and hire a chaise. Will you be ready?”

“Yes,” replied she, smiling. “Heaven bless you, Tom! and now good night.”

I did not go to my mother’s, but to an inn in the town, where I asked for a bed. In the morning I went down. As soon as Mrs St. Felix saw me she came out, and followed me at a little distance. We went up to where the chaises were to be obtained, and in less than three hours were at the King’s Arms, Chatham. I asked to be shown into a room, into which I led Mrs St. Felix, trembling like an aspen leaf. I seated her on the sofa, and then asked to be shown in to Sir James O’Connor.

“She is here, sir,” said I.

“Where?”

“Follow me, Sir James.”

I opened the door of the room, and closed it upon them.

Chapter Forty Eight.

My sister Virginia is at last placed in a situation which is satisfactory to my mother as well as to herself.

I remained very quietly in the coffee-room of the hotel, in case I should be sent for; which I presumed I should be before the day was over. In the afternoon a waiter came to say that Sir James O’Connor wished to speak to me, and I was ushered into his room, where I found Mrs St. Felix on the sofa.

As soon as the door was closed, Sir James took me by the hand, and led me up, saying, “Allow me to introduce your old friend as Lady O’Connor.”

“My dear Tom,” said she, taking me by the hand, “I am and ever shall be Mrs St. Felix with you. Come, now, and sit down. You will again have to take charge of me, for I am to return to Greenwich, and—leave it in a respectable manner. I daresay they have already reported that I have run away from my creditors. Sir James thinks I must go back as if nothing had happened, give out that I had some property left me by a relation, and then settle everything, and sell the goodwill of my shop. It certainly will be better than to give grounds for the surmises and reports which may take place at my sudden disappearance,—not that I am very likely to fall in with my old acquaintances at Greenwich.”

“Don’t you think so, Tom?—for Tom I must call you, in earnest of our future friendship,” said Sir James.

“I do think it will be the best plan, sir.”

“Well, then, you must convey her ladyship to Greenwich again this evening, and to-morrow the report must be spread, and the next day you will be able to re-escort her here. I hope you feel the compliment that I pay you in trusting you with my new-found treasure. Now let us sit down to dinner. Pray don’t look at your dress, Tom; at all events, it’s quite as respectable as her ladyship’s.”

After dinner a chaise was ordered, and Lady O’Connor and I returned to Greenwich, arriving there after dark. We walked down to her house: I then left her, and hastened to my mother’s.

“Well, mother,” said I, after the first salutations were over, “have you heard the news about Mrs St. Felix?”

“No, what has she done now?”

“Oh, she has done nothing, but a relation in Ireland has left her a lot of money, and she is going over there immediately. Whether she will come back again nobody knows.”

“Well, we can do without her,” replied my mother, with pique. “I’m very glad that she’s going, for I have always protested at Virginia’s being so intimate with her—a tobacco-shop is not a place for a young lady.”

“Mother,” replied Virginia, “when we lived in Fisher’s Alley Mrs St. Felix was above us in situation.”

“I have desired you very often, Virginia, not to refer to Fisher’s Alley, you know I do not like it—the very best families have had their reverses.”

“I cannot help thinking that such has been the case with Mrs St. Felix,” replied Virginia.

“If you please, Miss Saunders, we’ll drop the subject,” replied my mother, haughtily.

The news soon spread; indeed, I walked to several places where I knew it would be circulated, and before morning all Greenwich knew that Mrs St. Felix had been left a fortune: some said ten thousand pounds, others had magnified it to ten thousand a year. When I called upon her the next day, I found that she had made arrangements for carrying on her business during her absence, not having stated that she quitted for ever, but that she would write and let them know as soon as she arrived in Ireland what her decision would be, as she was not aware what might be the property left her. The doctor, who had undertaken to conduct her affairs during her absence, looked very woebegone indeed, and I pitied him; he had become so used to her company, that he felt miserable at the idea of her departure, although all hopes of ever marrying her had long been dismissed from his mind. Mrs St. Felix told me that she would be ready that evening, and I returned home and found Virginia in tears; her mother had again assailed her on account of her feelings towards Mrs St. Felix; and Virginia told me that she was crying at the idea of Mrs St. Felix going away, much more than at what her mother had said; and she requested me to walk with her to Mrs St. Felix that she might wish her farewell.

When we arrived Mrs St. Felix embraced Virginia warmly, and took her into the little back parlour. Virginia burst into tears. “You are the only friend in the town that I dearly love,” said she, “and now you are going.”

“My dear girl, I am more sorry to part with you and Tom than I can well express—our pain is mutual, but we shall meet again.”

“I see no chance of that,” said Virginia, mournfully.

“But I do; and what is more, I have thought about it since I have had the news. Tom, your sister, of course, only knows the common report?”

“Of course she knows no more than anybody else.”

“Well, you do, at all events; and I give you leave, as I know she is to be trusted, to confide my secret to her. And, Virginia, dear, when I tell you that I shall want you to come and stay with me, and shall arrange accordingly, after you have heard what your brother has to tell to you, you will understand that we may meet again. Good bye, and God bless you, dearest; go away now, for I have much to do.”

When I told to Virginia what the reader is well acquainted with, her joy was excessive. “Yes,” said she, “I see now: my mother is so anxious that I should be taken into some grand family as a companion; and when Lady O’Connor agrees to receive me, she will never have an idea that it is Mrs St. Felix: if she had, nothing would induce her to let me go, that I am sure of; for she has taken an aversion to her for reasons known only to herself.”

I returned to Mrs St. Felix’s house as soon as I had escorted Virginia home, leaving her very happy. The doctor was there, mute and melancholy; and I was thinking that we should have some difficulty in getting rid of him, when Tom made his appearance.

“If you please, sir,” said he, “Mrs Fallover wants you immediately; she’s taken very bad.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Indeed, but you must help it, doctor,” said Mrs St. Felix; “the poor woman is, as you know, in her first confinement, and you must not neglect her, so let’s say good bye at once, and a happy return. I asked Tom to come down, that I might call upon his sister and one or two other people before I go; so you see, doctor, as you can’t go with me, you may just as well go and attend to the poor woman; so good bye, Doctor Tadpole, I will write to you as soon as I know what I’m to do.”

The doctor took her hand, and after a pause said, “Mrs St. Felix, Eheu, me infelix!” and hastened out of the shop.

“Poor fellow!” said she, “he’ll miss me, and that’s the truth. Good bye, Jane; mind you look after everything till I come back, and take care of the dog and cat. Come, Tom, we’ll go now.”

I threw her trunk on my shoulders, and followed her till we came to the post-house: the chaise was ordered out, and we set off.

“Tom,” said Lady O’Connor, as I again call her, now that she is clear of Greenwich, “there is one portion of my history which you do not know—a very trifling part indeed. When I saw in the newspapers that my husband had, as I supposed, been executed, I am ashamed to say that I first thought of suicide; but my better feelings prevailed, and I then resolved to change my name, and to let people suppose that I was dead. It was for that reason that I left my bonnet by the river-side, and all my apparel in the house, only taking away a few trinkets and valuables, to dispose of for my future subsistence. I obtained a passage in a transport bound to Woolwich, on the plea of my husband having arrived from abroad; and, by mere accident, I found the goodwill of the tobacconist’s shop to be sold; it suited me—and there is the whole of my history which you do not know.

“And now, as to Virginia, I intend to have her with me very soon. Your mother is anxious that she should get into a high family, trusting that her beauty will captivate some of the members—a bad kind of speculation. I will advertise for a companion, and so arrange that your mother shall not see me; and when your sister does come to me, it shall not be as a companion, but as a child of my own. I owe you much, Tom—indeed, almost everything; and it is the only way in which I can repay you. I have already spoken to Sir James on the subject: he is equally ready to pay the debt of gratitude, and therefore in future Virginia is our adopted child.”

“You are more than repaying me, Lady O’Connor,” replied I, “and you are obliging me in the quarter where I feel the obligation the greatest.”

“That I believe, Tom; so now say no more about it.”

I may as well here inform the reader that I remained a week at Chatham, and that during that time Lady O’Connor put an advertisement in the county paper, such as we knew would be a bait to my mother. This paper I forwarded to Virginia, marking the advertisement. My mother immediately replied to it, and Sir James O’Connor went up to Greenwich and had an interview with my mother and Virginia, at apartments he had taken at the hotel; appeared pleased with my sister, and said that as soon as Lady O’Connor was sufficiently recovered she would send for her to Chatham. This took place in two days afterwards; my mother escorted Virginia there. Sir James stated that her ladyship was too unwell to see anybody, but that she would speak a few words to Virginia, and leave Sir James to settle the rest with my mother. Virginia came down to her mother, declared that Lady O’Connor was a very ladylike elegant person, and that she should wish to take the situation. The terms were handsome, and my mother, although she regretted not seeing her ladyship, was satisfied, and Virginia was to come in two days afterwards, which she did. Thus was my sister comfortably settled, and after remaining two days I took my leave of Sir James and Lady O’Connor, intending to return to Deal, when I received a letter from Peter Anderson, informing me that old Nanny had been suddenly taken very ill, and that Doctor Tadpole did not think it possible that she would survive more than twenty-four hours; that she was very anxious to see me, and that he hoped I would come up immediately.

I showed the letter to Lady O’Connor, who said, “You will go, of course, Tom.”

“Immediately,” replied I, “and the more so as this letter is dated three days back; how it has been delayed I do not know. Farewell, Lady O’Connor; and farewell, dearest Virginia. Old Nanny, as you both know, has many claims upon my gratitude.”