Captain Frederick Marryat (continued 7)

We descended and found the mate and boatswain anxiously waiting for us. Bramble struck a light with his flint, and we carried it to the screen where we had piled the straw under the seats and against the panels.

“Now then, messmates,” said Bramble, “as long as the others sleep the better; but if they waken in the confusion, bring here all the straw you can collect, for we must not fail for want of fuel.”

But of this there was no chance, for the wood of the screen and benches was so dry that it was alight immediately. For ten minutes the other prisoners and the guard outside did not appear to be aware of what was going on; but at last the church was so filled with smoke that they were roused up: still the principal smoke was in that portion of the church where we were; at the other end they were not much inconvenienced, as it found vent by the windows. What the invalids were about outside I do not know, but they did not perceive it; probably they had left their guard to go and carouse. At all events the flames had climbed up from the screen and had caught a portion of the roof before the Frenchmen knew that the church was on fire; the smoke was now exchanged for a bright clear flame, which had already found its way through the slating, and the prisoners were halloaing and screaming as loud as they could. We went to the part of the church where the others were, and joined the outcry. The voices of the people outside were now to be heard, for men and women had been summoned by the cry of the church being on fire: still there was no danger until the roof fell in, and that would not be the case for perhaps an hour, although it was now burning furiously, and the sparks and cinders were borne away to leeward, by the breeze. The screams of the prisoners now became dreadful: frightened out of their wits, they fully expected to be burnt alive; still the door was not opened, although we heard a loud consultation of many voices without.

“Well,” said Bramble, “I hope they really don’t mean to let us burn here; at all events, if they do, I can save the poor devils, for there’s room enough on the stairs of the tower for twice as many. At all events we must hold on till the last moment.”

As he said this we heard them outside put the key in the door, and immediately Bramble, the boatswain, mate, and I retreated from the crowd and gained the other portion of the church, which was most in flames. As the door opened we hastened to the tower door, and closing it after us, gained the staircase near the top, where we remained quiet; there was no want of smoke there, but still we could breathe pretty freely, as the fire from the roof was borne down by the wind from us and towards the people, who were at the front of the church. How they disposed of the other prisoners we do not know, as we dared not show ourselves; but in about half an hour the whole of the roof fell down upon the pavement, and nothing but the bare walls of the church were left standing.

After the roof fell in the light from the flames was so small that we ventured to the top of the tower to look out. There were still many people standing about, but the major part of them were gone. As the fire sank down so did the people go away; at last there was no one to be seen: we remained more than half an hour watching; light after light disappeared, and all was quiet as death.

“Now’s our time,” said Bramble, “but still we must be cautious; let us follow one another at about ten yards apart: if we meet with any one, pretend to be reeling as if drunk, and they may think we are privateer’s-men not yet gone to bed.”

We followed him down the stairs, gained the church, and trod over the still burning embers; as soon as we were clear of the walls we turned to the right in our way down to the harbour, keeping in the gloom as much as possible. We arrived safely at the pier, for there was not a soul stirring; all our fear was that we should find some one keeping watch on board of the vessels, which we must pass after we had possession of one of the fishing-boats, as they laid inside of them. But fortune favoured us every way; the boat we selected had her sails bent, and was not fastened with a chain, we were, therefore, in the stream in a moment; the tide was also running out strong, and we passed the vessels without having occasion to use our oars. The battery at the entrance of the harbour was also without its usual sentry, for the men had been called up to guard the prisoners. In half an hour we were clear of the harbour, and steering with a fine breeze for the English coast; and when daylight broke the French land was but just perceptible.

“Well,” said Bramble, “praised be Heaven for all things. I expected to have lost my precious liberty for years, and I have only lost two shirts, one pair of trousers, and three pairs of worsted stockings.”

We had nothing to eat or drink, but that we cared little for, as the wind was fair. About ten o’clock that night we landed at Cawsand Bay near Plymouth, where we sat down to a hearty supper; and when we went to bed, I did not forget to thank Providence for my unexpected escape.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

Another escape, more fortunate than the one recorded in the preceding chapter.

From the time that I had passed my examination, and worked as a pilot on my own account, until the period of our escape, which I have narrated in the preceding chapter, I had continued to live in the cottage with Bramble, without contributing any share to the expenses. I had at first proposed it, but Bramble would not listen to any such arrangement; he considered me, he said, as his son, and who knowed, he added, but that the cottage would be mine after he was gone. The fact was that Bramble ardently wished that Bessy and I should be united. He continually hinted at it, joked with Bessy about me; and I believe that, in consequence, Bessy’s feelings towards me had taken the same bent. She was prepared for the issue; the regard naturally felt for me from her long intimacy, now that the indulgence of it was so openly sanctioned by him whom she considered as her father, was not checked on her part; indeed, there was no doubt but that it had ripened into love. She showed it in every little way that her maiden modesty did not interfere with, and old Bramble would at times throw out such strong hints of our eventual union as to make me feel very uncomfortable. They neither of them had any idea of my heart having been pre-engaged, and the strangeness of my manner was ascribed by Bramble to my feelings towards Bessy. Bessy, however, was not so easily deceived; my conduct towards her appeared, to say the best of it, very inconsistent. So often had I had opportunities, especially when I was at home and Bramble was away, of speaking on the subject, and so often had these opportunities been neglected, that it filled her mind with doubt and anxiety. After having accepted my addresses at first, Janet had once or twice written to me; latterly, however, she had not written herself—all her messages were through Virginia’s letters, or, perhaps, she would add a little postscript. Had letters arrived for me in any other handwriting than that of Virginia, Bessy, after her suspicions were roused, might have easily guessed the truth; but it was the absence of any clue to guide her as to the state of my feelings which so much puzzled her. She was fully convinced that my heart was not hers, but she had no reason to suppose that it was in the possession of another. Thus did my passion for Janet Wilson in every way prove to me a source of anxiety. I knew that it was my duty to undeceive Bramble and Bessy, yet the task was too painful, and I could not make up my mind to make them unhappy. I felt that I had no right to remain under Bramble’s roof and live at his expense, and, at the same time, I could not find an opportunity of telling him what my feelings and wishes were, the very mention of which would at once explain to him that the desire of his old age would never be accomplished. I often accused myself of ingratitude, and felt as if it were my duty to make every sacrifice to one who had been so kind a protector; but I was bound by vows to Janet Wilson, and how was it possible that I could retract?

Virginia’s letters were not satisfactory: at first she told me how much she had been annoyed by the attentions of the young nobleman, and how very indelicate my mother had been in her conduct; eventually she informed me that she had been insulted by him, and that, upon complaining to my mother, the latter had, much to her surprise and indignation, not only laughed at his extreme forwardness, but pointed out to Virginia a line of conduct by which he might be entrapped into marriage; that her refusal to accede to such unworthy devices had created a serious breach between her mother and herself. She stated the young man to be extremely silly and weak, and that my mother had gained great influence over him; and were it not that the presence of the tutor, who seldom quitted the house, had proved a check, that there was little doubt but, as far as the young man was concerned, the disproportionate match would be readily acceded to; that the only person she had ventured to consult was her dear friend Mrs St. Felix, who had promised her, if the persecution did not cease, that she would make Mr Sommerville the tutor aware of what was going on. Virginia described the latter as an amiable modest young man, who did all in his power to instruct his pupil, but who was treated with anything but deference in return.

Relative to Janet she said little, except that she generally called there every day to make inquiries after me: once or twice she did say that it was a pity that I was not able to come oftener to Greenwich, as Janet was not very steady; indeed, considering how young she was, without a mother, and so little controlled by her father, it was not to be wondered at.

Such was the state of affairs when I made up my mind that I would speak to Bramble about my paying my share of the expenses, which I thought would open his eyes to the real state of my feeling towards Bessy: I did so; I pointed out to him that I was now earning money fast, and that I considered it but fair that I should support myself, and not put him to further expense; that perhaps it would be better that I should take a house for myself; as I must give a great deal of trouble to Bessy and Mrs Maddox.

“Well, Tom,” said Bramble, “you’ve been at me about this before, and I believe it’s a proper feeling, after all, it certainly does seem to me to be a matter of little consequence, as things stand; however, I can’t consent to your leaving us. You have been with me ever since you were a lad, and I should feel like a fish out of water if I were to be without you or Bessy; so pay just what you please—I’ll take it since you wish it—and there’s an end of the matter.”

This was not the end to which I was driving; but Bramble’s eyes would not be opened, and I could not help it. He had never directly spoken to me about an union with Bessy, and therefore it was impossible for me to say any more. Bramble, however, did not fail to communicate what I had said to her; and one evening when we were standing on the shingle beach, she said to me, “So Emerson has been convicted for smuggling, and sentenced beyond the seas.”

“I am sorry for it,” replied I.

“His house is to be let now, Tom; would it not suit you? for my father told me that you wished to leave us.”

“Why should I live upon you when I am able to support myself?”

“Certainly not. If it were not that I could not bear to see father miserable, I think it would be better if you did take Emerson’s house; but it would vex him, poor good man.”

“But not you, Bessy; is it that you mean?”

“Perhaps it is. Tell me yourself, Tom, would it not be better?”

I made no reply.

“Well,” replied Bessy, “think of me as you please; I will speak now, Tom. I am not considering you, Tom, nor am I thinking of myself; I am only induced so to do on account of my father. We have been brought up together as children, Tom, and, as children, we were great friends, and, I believe, sincerely attached to each other. I believe it to be very true that those who are brought up together as brothers and sisters do not change that affection for any other more serious in after life. It is therefore not our faults if we cannot feel as, you must know, Tom, my father wishes we should. Am I not right?”

“You are, I believe, Bessy,” replied I.

“My father, therefore, is deceiving himself with the hopes of what never can take place, but I know him even better than you do, Tom; it is the object of his daily thoughts—his only wish before he sinks into his grave. I cannot bear to undeceive him; no more can you, if I have truly judged your feelings.”

“You have judged right, Bessy.”

“The very circumstance of our knowing his wishes, the hints which he throws out, his joking on the subject, have been a source of annoyance to both of us; and not only a source of annoyance, Tom, it has estranged us—we no longer feel that affection which we should feel for each other, that kindness as between brother and sister which might exist; on the contrary, not being exactly aware of each other’s feelings, we avoid each other, and fearful that the least kindness might be misconstrued, we do not really treat each as we otherwise would; in fact, it has destroyed our mutual confidence. Is it not so?”

“It is, I acknowledge, but too true, Bessy, and I thank you for having entered into this explanation—”

“Which, as I said before,” continued Bessy, “I should not have done except for the sake of my father; but now that I have done so” (and here Bessy’s voice became tremulous), “let us consult at once how we shall act so as to secure his happiness, and that in future we may return to the former confidence and regard which should exist between us as brother and sister.”

“Point out how this is to be done, Bessy, and I will cheerfully enter into your wishes.”

“We must laugh when he laughs, Tom, even if not inclined; we must gain time—that is very easy: I may refuse as long as he lives—you may put it off; and then, Tom, circumstances may help us—who knows what even a day may bring forth?”

“Very true,” replied I, “there’s only one thing—”

“What is that?”

“Suppose I was to marry?”

“Then,” replied Bessy, in a voice half choked, as she turned away, “my father would be very unhappy.”

I looked round to reply, but she had gone into the cottage. This conversation gave me great satisfaction. I felt convinced that if I had at one time formed the idea that Bessy was attached to me, I had been mistaken, and I was as indifferent to her as she was to me. I was just as anxious as she was not to vex Bramble, and equally glad that confidence was restored between us. Alas! I must have been very blind not to have perceived what was the true state of her feelings, but I did not, and after some reflection I determined that I would make her a confidant of my passion for Janet Wilson; and then I walked to the post-office to see if there were any letters from Virginia. There was a letter for me—a double one. As soon as I had paid the money, I opened it; it was very closely written, and evidently Virginia had much to communicate to me. I forgot for the moment Bessy and Bramble, thought only of Janet, and put the letter to my lips as I walked away, that I might go home and read it. I hurried past Bessy, who was in the parlour, and went up the stairs into my bed-room, where I took my letter out of my pocket and commenced it.

“My dear Tom,—15th April.

“I shall begin a letter to you now, and fill it up as a sort of a diary; as it is the best plan, I think, to narrate circumstances as they actually take place. It is unpleasant to say anything against my mother, the more so as I believe that she thinks she has been doing right, and has my interest sincerely at heart: she appears to consider that an alliance with people of rank cannot be purchased too dear, and that every attempt is justifiable to secure for me such an advantage. Little does she know me: if she forgets, I never shall, that I am the daughter of a Greenwich pensioner, and never would ally myself with those whose relations would look upon me as a disgrace to their family. No, Tom; even if I were so heedless as to allow my affections to be enthralled, I would at any sacrifice refuse to enter into a family much beyond my condition. I have thought of this often, and I confess that I am sometimes unhappy. I have been brought up and educated above my situation in life, and I do not think I ever could marry a person who was not more refined and educated than those who are really and truly my equals. But as, at the same time, I never will enter into a family who might look down upon my parentage, I presume your little Virginia must remain unmarried. If so, I am content—I have no wish to alter my present condition. I am happy and respected; and with the exception of the trifling annoyances which we all must expect and must submit to, I have no reason to be dissatisfied; on the contrary, I have to be grateful for many blessings, and I trust that I am so. My poor mother is the cause of all my present vexations. She tells me that my beauty, as she is partially pleased to call it, is sufficient for my aspiring to the hand of a duke, and that it will be my own fault if I do not make a high connection. Every night she has been overwhelming me with alternate reproaches and entreaties to permit the attentions of the gay gentleman who is now lodging at our house, stating that it was on my account only that he took the apartments, and that, if I play my cards well, he will be caught in his own trap, which, I presume, is as much as to say that he came here with different intentions, and finding that he cannot succeed, will secure his intended prize or victim by marriage rather than not obtain her at all. Very flattering, truly! and this is the man to whom my mother would induce me to confide my future happiness—a man who, independent of his want of probity, is a fool into the bargain. But the persecution—on his part and on that of my mother now becomes so annoying, that I have requested Mrs St. Felix to speak to Mr Sommerville the tutor, who, if he does his duty—and I have every reason to believe that he will do so—will take some measures to remove his pupil from our house.

“17th. Mrs St. Felix and Mr Sommerville have had a meeting. He generally walks out every afternoon in the park; and Mrs St. Felix and he have already been introduced: she therefore went out and met him, and after exchanging a few words she introduced the subject, stating that she did so at my request. Mr Sommerville, although he had not been blind, had had no idea that things had proceeded so far; and he promised Mrs St. Felix that he would soon put an end to the persecution, or remove him from our house. Janet has been here to-day, and I told her what had passed; she very much approved of the steps which I had taken. I must, however, say that latterly she has not appeared to take that interest about you that she used to do, and I fear that your continual absence is injurious to your prospects. She is very young and very giddy, Tom: I wish she had been older, as, even when she is your wife, she will require much looking after, and a firm hand to settle her down into what a married woman in my opinion ought to be. Mr Sommerville has requested me to favour him with a few minutes’ conversation; and as I cannot do it in our house, for my mother never leaves me a minute to myself; I told him that I should be at Mrs St. Felix’s this afternoon, and he could speak to me then. He knows that I have no secrets from Mrs St. Felix; and although it is not pleasant to resort to such means, still there can be no impropriety in my hearing what he has to tell me in her presence.

“I have seen Mr Sommerville—he thanked me very much for having communicated, through Mrs St. Felix, my mother’s plot against his protégé; and paid me many compliments upon my behaviour, which were quite unnecessary. He told me that he had spoken to his pupil, who had most positively denied his having any such intention, and stated that he was merely amusing himself; and he had pledged himself not to take the least notice of me for the future. ‘I am well aware,’ said he, ‘that what he has stated is not correct; he has not deceived me by his assertions; and were it not that I feel confidence in you, Miss Virginia,’ continued he, ‘I would write to his father that he might be immediately removed. I hardly need say, that should anything of this kind take place, I should be most severely blamed: it is not the first time that I have been compelled to interfere, for my pupil is of a very susceptible disposition, and has fancied himself in love with at least five young people since he has been under my charge. In this instance,’ continued he, making me a bow, ‘he has some extenuation to offer. Will you oblige me by informing me if he adheres to his promise? or do you wish that I should speak to your mother?’

“Mrs St. Felix replied that it would be unnecessary; indeed, that if Lord — left the house I should only be subject to fresh persecution. Mr Sommerville, at her request, stayed to drink tea, and is certainly a very pleasant, well-informed, amiable young man.

“23rd. I have received no molestation since the explanation with Mr Sommerville, except from my mother, who accuses me of having affronted Lord —; and although I deny it, she asserts that he never could have so changed his conduct towards both of us if I had not so done. I have not seen Janet this week—I cannot imagine what has become of her.

“24th. You may imagine my joy, my dear Tom: Mr Sommerville has received a letter, stating that his lordship is to go down to his father’s seat in the country, as he will be of age in a month, and he is to make acquaintance with the tenants;—there are to be great rejoicings there upon his coming of age. I am sure no one can rejoice more than I shall when he leaves, which is to be next Saturday. I am also very glad to say that the Marquess has presented Mr Sommerville with a valuable living, now that he gives up his tutorship. I really think he will do justice to his profession, for I have seen more of him lately, and esteem him very much.

“27th. They are gone, much to my mother’s mortification, and to my delight; and now, as I have written so much about myself; I shall leave this letter open till I see Janet, that I may tell you something about her, otherwise I know my letter will not be interesting to you.

“31st. My dear Tom, you must prepare yourself for painful intelligence.

“Janet has disappeared. She left her father’s house last night after the family had retired, but no one knows where: she left a few lines on her table, stating that they would hear from her soon. Poor Mr Wilson was here to-day—he is half distracted—and the whole town is full of the scandal. Mrs St. Felix told me this morning that she has discovered that within the last week she has been seen walking on the London Road with Lord —. Is it possible?

“2nd May. It is all true—Mrs St. Felix has a letter from Mr Sommerville, stating that Janet was brought up to town and married to Lord — two days ago. It appears, that from the time that I repulsed his attentions, he fixed them upon Janet; that she encouraged him, and used to meet him every night, as Mrs St. Felix was informed. Mr Sommerville has seen his father, and fully exculpated himself; but the Marquess declares, as his son is a minor, that the marriage shall not be binding. How it will end Heaven only knows; but she is much to be pitied. This will account for her not coming to me as usual. Now, Tom, I do not suppose you will pay attention to me at present, but from what I knew of Janet, and which her conduct has fully proved, she was not worthy to be your wife, and could not have contributed to your happiness. I pity you from my heart, as I know what you will feel; but still I congratulate you, and eventually you will congratulate yourself at your fortunate escape.

“I will say no more at present, except that I am, and ever will be,

“Your truly attached sister,

“Virginia.”

I had courage to finish the letter, and then it dropped from my hands. I was bewildered, stupefied, maddened. As my sister said, I did indeed feel. Was it possible? Janet, who had—mercy on me! I threw myself on the bed, and there I remained till the next morning in a state most pitiable.

It is only those who have been deceived in their first attachment who can appreciate my agony of feeling. For the first few hours I hated the whole world, and, had then the means been at hand, should in all probability have hastened into another; but gradually my excitement abated; I found relief in tears of sorrow and indignation. I arose at daylight the next morning, worn out with contending feelings, heavy and prostrated in mind. I went out—stood on the beach, the keen breeze cooled my fevered cheek. For hours I leant motionless upon an anchor, all hope of future happiness abandoned for ever.

Chapter Thirty Eight.

Which is all about love—Bramble confides to me all his acquaintance with the tender passion.

To conceal from Bramble or Bessy the state of mind to which I was reduced was impossible. I was in a condition of prostration against which I could not rally; and I believe that there never was a person who had been disappointed in his first love who did not feel as I did—that is, if he really loved with a sincere, pure, and holy feeling; for I do not refer to the fancied attachments of youth, which may be said to be like the mere flaws of wind which precede the steady gale. I could not, for several days, trust myself to speak, I sat silent and brooding over the words, the looks, the smiles, the scenes which had promised me a store of future happiness—such as would probably have been the case, as far as we can be happy in this world, had I fixed my affections upon a true and honest, instead of a fickle and vain, woman; had I built my house upon a rock, instead of one upon the sand—which, as pointed out by the Scriptures, had been washed away, and had disappeared for ever! Bramble and Bessy in vain attempted to gain from me the cause of my dejection; I believe that they had many conversations upon it when I was absent, but whatever may have been their surmises, they treated me with every kindness and consideration. About a week after I had received the letter, Bramble said to me, “Come, Tom, we have had an easterly wind for ten days now, they are going off in a galley to-morrow—suppose we go too; it’s no use staying here moping and doing nothing. You’ve been out of sorts lately, and it will do you good.” I thought so too, and consented; but the other pilots were not ready, and our departure was deferred till the day after. Bramble had acquainted me in the morning with this delay; I was annoyed at it, for I was restless, and wished for change. My bundle had been prepared; I had passed the best part of the night in writing to Virginia, and was, as people very often are when under such oppressed feelings, in anything but a good humour at being obliged to remain another day at Deal. I had walked out to the beach after we had breakfasted, and had remained there some time. Bramble had gone out in the direction of the post-office, and I asked him to inquire if there was a letter for me, for I thought it very likely that Virginia might have written to me again. I had remained for an hour on the beach, when I recollected that my knife required to be sharpened, and I walked round the cottage to the back yard, where there was a small grindstone. I had not put my knife to it, when I heard Bramble come in and say to Bessy—

“Well, girl, I’ve found it all out; for, you see, I thought old Anderson might know something about it, or, if he did not, he could inquire,—and I’ve got the whole story. Here’s Anderson’s letter. I thought there must be something of that sort.”

Here there was a pause, as if Bessy was reading the letter.

“Only to think—she’s run away with a young lord,” said Bramble. “So it seems,” replied Bessy. “I’m sorry for poor Tom, for he feels it severely.”

“I’m not sorry,” rejoined Bramble; “she wasn’t deserving of him; and, Bessy, I’m glad for your sake.”

“Don’t say that, father; Tom will never think of me, nor do I care about him.”

“I don’t exactly believe that, Bessy, for all you say so. It’s my wish, and you know it, Bessy, to see you and Tom spliced before I die; and I thank Heaven, that this false girl is out of the way—I’ve more hopes now.”

“Marriages are made in heaven, father,” replied Bessy; “so, pray don’t say anything more about it. It will be time enough for me to think of Tom when Tom appears to think of me. I shall always love him as a brother.”

“Well, God’s will be done! We must now try and console him, poor fellow: and I’m very glad that we’re off to-morrow. Salt water cures love, they say, sooner than anything else.”

“It may, perhaps,” replied Bessy; “but I feel that if I were once really in love the whole ocean itself could not wash my love out. However, women are not men.”

“That’s true. You hug your love as you do your babies, all day long, and never tire. Now, you see, a man gets tired of nursing in no time;—I never was in love but once.”

“Oh, father, I’ve heard that story so often.”

“Well, then, you shan’t hear it again. Now, I’ll go out and see where Tom may be. I suppose he’s looking at the wind, and thinking how it changes like a woman. But I’ll light my pipe first.”

“Do, father; and while Tom looks at the wind and thinks of women, do you just watch the smoke out of your pipe, and think of men and their constancy.”

“Well, I will, if it pleases you. Put the letter by, Bessy, for I shouldn’t like Tom to see it. What have you got for dinner?”

“I left that to Mrs Maddox, so I can’t tell. But there’s cold pudding in the larder; I’ll put it out for Tom.”

“Nay, Bessy, you must not jest with him.”

“Am I likely, think you, father?” replied Bessy; “can’t I feel for him?”

“Come, come, dearest, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“I’m not crying, but I’m very sorry for Tom, and that’s the truth. Now go away with your pipe, and leave me alone.”

It was impossible for me to have returned without being perceived, and I therefore remained during the whole of this conversation. I was annoyed to discover that they knew my secret; and still more vexed at the remainder of this colloquy, by which I discovered that Bramble had so completely set his heart upon an union between me and Bessy, which I considered as impossible. I felt, as all do at the time, as if I never could love again. I walked away, and did not return home till dinner-time. Bramble and Bessy were very kind, although they did not talk much; and when I went away the next day I was moved with the affectionate farewell of the latter.

It was a beautiful night, and we were running before the east wind, the Portland Light upon our starboard beam; the other men in the boat had laid down in their gregos and pilot jackets, and were fast asleep, while Bramble was at the helm steering; and I, who was too restless in my mind to feel any inclination to repose, was sitting on the stern-sheets beside him.

“Do you see the line of the Race?” said Bramble; “it seems strong to-night.”

Bramble referred to what is called by the mariners the Race of Portland, where the uneven ground over which the water runs creates a very heavy sea even in a calm. Small smuggling vessels and boats, forced into it in bad weather, have often foundered. The tide, however, runs so rapidly over it that you are generally swept through it in a few minutes, and then find yourself again in comparatively smooth water.

“Yes,” replied I; “it is very strong to-night, from the long continuance of the easterly wind.”

“Exactly so, Tom,” continued Bramble. “I’ve often thought that getting into that Race is just like falling in love.”

“Why so?” replied I, rather pettishly, for I was not pleased at his referring to the subject.

“I’ll tell you why, Tom,” said Bramble; “because, you see, when we get into the Race, it’s all boiling and bubbling and tossing about—rudder and sails are of no use; and you are carried along by a fierce tide, which there’s no resisting, with no small damage to the upper works, until you are fairly out again, and find breath to thank God for it. Now, aren’t that like love?”

“I suppose it is as you say so; you know best.”

“Well, I think I do know best; because, you see, I have long been clear of it. I never was in love but once, Tom; did I ever tell you about it?”

“Never,” replied I.

“Well, then, as ’twill pass time away, I’ll just give you the long and the short of it, as the saying is. When I was just about twenty, and a smart lad in my own opinion, I was on board of a transport, and we had gone round to Portsmouth with a load of timber for the dockyard. It was not my first trip there, for, you see, the transport was employed wholly on that service; and during my cruising on shore I had taken up my quarters at the Chequer Board, a house a little way from the common Hard, in the street facing the dockyard wall; for, you see, Tom, it was handy to us, as our ship laid at the wharf, off the mast pond, it being just outside the dockyard gates. The old fellow who kept the house was as round as a ball, for he never started out by any chance from one year’s end, to another; his wife was dead; and he had an only daughter, who served at the bar, in a white cap with blue streamers; and when her hair was out of papers, and she put on clean shoes and stockings, which she did every day after dinner, she was a very smart neat built little heifer; and, being an only daughter, she was considered as a great catch to any one who could get hold of her. She had quite the upper hand of her father, who dared not say a word; and with others she would give herself no few airs. At one time she would be as sweet as sugar, and the next, without any cause, she’d ‘wonder at your imperance.’ It was difficult to know how to take her: it’s a bad thing for a girl to have a great fortune; they get so much flattery that it turns their heads. Well, Tom, I wasn’t looking after the money, as you’ll believe when I tell you so; but as she was very chatty with me, and allowed me to come inside the bar, which was considered as a great favour, to help rinse the glasses, and so on, and as the other men used to joke with me, and tell me that I should carry off the prize, I began to think that she was fond of me, and so very naturally I became fond of her; and we met and we parted (and she would allow me to kiss her when we parted), until I was quite gone altogether, and did nothing but think of her all day and dream of her all night. Well, the last time that I was in the transport to Portsmouth, I had made up my mind to clench the business, and as soon as the sails were furled, I dressed myself in my best toggery, and made all sail for the old house. When I came in I found Peggy in the bar, and a very fancy sort of young chap alongside of her. I did not think so much of that, and I was going inside the bar to shake hands as usual, when says she, ‘Well, I should not wonder,’ pulling to the half-door, as if she were surprised at my attempting to come in.

“‘Oh, ho!’ says I, ‘are you on that tack? what next?’ and then I looked more at the chap, and he was a very nice young man, as the saying is. As I afterwards found out, he was in the smuggling line between Cherbourg and our coast, and he had Frenchified manners, and he talked little bits of French, and he had French gloves for presents, and had ear-rings in his ears, and lots of rings on his fingers. So I took my seat at the wooden benches near the fire, just as sulky as a bear with a sore head, watching their manoeuvres: at last he walked out, kissing his hand as she smiles. As the coast was clear I went up to the bar.

“‘Well,’ says I, ‘Peggy, so the wind’s shifted, is it?’

“‘What do you mean?’ says she. ‘I suppose I may be civil to another person as well as to you.’

“‘Yes, I see no objection,’ says I; ‘but why was he to be inside the bar, and I put out?’

“‘Oh,’ replied she, ‘one at a time, you know, Mr Philip. I haven’t made any promises to you that I know of.’

“‘That’s very true,’ replied I, ‘but—’

“‘Oh, you mustn’t fret here,’ interrupted she. ‘I’m my own mistress, I suppose. However, I’ll tell you this much, that I don’t care a bit about him, and that’s the truth of it—but I did not like your coming inside the bar so quietly, as if you had a right there, for I don’t want people to make remarks.’

“Well, the end of it was that she pacified me, and we were as great friends almost as ever: I say almost, for I had my eyes upon her and that chap, and did not much like it. A week after my arrival there was to be a fair over at Ryde, in the Isle of Wight, and I asked Peggy whether she would go with me; but she refused, saying that she was obliged to go to her aunt’s out at Limberhook, who was very old, and had sent for her, so I thought nothing more about the matter. Well, the day before the fair, as we were busy in the forenoon getting the timber out of the vessel, one of my shipmates, who went to the same house, says to me, ‘I say, Tom, when I was at the Chequers last night, I overheard Peggy promise to go to the Ryde Fair with that Frenchified smuggling chap.’

“‘Did you?’ said I.

“‘Yes,’ replied he, ‘and they agreed to start at twelve o’clock, just after the dockyard bell rang: I thought at the time it was just to give you the slip before you left the ship, and that she is turning you over.’

“Well, when I heard this, did not my blood boil? for the hussy had told me a lie in saying that she was going to her aunt’s; and it was evident that she had done so, that she might go with this other fellow to the fair. I thought the matter over and over again, for, to tell you the truth, all I wanted then was revenge. I felt nothing but scorn for a woman who could act in so base a manner; at the same time I wished to punish both her and him by spoiling their day’s sport; so at last I determined that I would start right away for the fair myself, and not only put her to shame, but give her fancy man a good drubbing, which I was well able to do. So I walks down to Point and gets into a wherry, keeping a sharp look-out for their coming down from the Hard. At last I spied them, and then I made the waterman pull away, so as to keep about three cables’ length ahead of them, and thus I continued watching their billing and cooing, and grinding my teeth with rage, until we had come over to the other side. Now, you see, Tom, at that time there was no wooden pier at Ryde as there is now, and when the tide was out there was such a long flat of mud that there was no landing; so the way it was managed was, the wherries came in as far as they could, and were met by a horse and cart, which took out the passengers and carried them through the mud and water to the hard ground. Well, when I pulled in, the man was there with his horse and cart, and I paid my fare, and stepped out of the wherry, expecting the man to drive off and put me on shore; but he seeing that there was another wherry close at hand, says he must wait for her passengers, and make one trip of it. I did not care how soon we met, and waited very patiently until they pulled up to us. They were not a little surprised to see me, and not a little annoyed either. As for Peggy, she coloured to her elbows, and then tried to put up an impudent face on the matter. He looked both foolish and angry. They were both very smart. She had on a white gown with a yellow handkerchief on her shoulders, a green silk bonnet and blue feathers, and he was figged out as fine as five-pence, with white jean trousers, and rings and chains, and Lord knows what.

“‘Well,’ says Peggy, as bold as brass, ‘who’d have thought to have seen you here?’

“‘I did not say that I was going to see my aunt,’ replied I; ‘but as you did, who would have expected to see you here?’

“‘Don’t talk to me, young man,’ said she, as red as fire, and turning away to her beau.

“Just as she said this, the cart drove off, the horse floundering through the mud, which was about three feet deep, with a matter of six inches of water above it. As she turned away aft, I turned forward, thinking what I should do next, and then I cast my eyes down, and observed that it was a tilting cart as they use for carrying out manure; and that if I took the two pegs out it would fall right back. I thought this a capital trick. The carman was sitting on his horse, and it couldn’t matter to him, so I stepped out on the front of the cart, and standing on the shafts, I first pulled out one peg and then another, while they were busy talking to each other, with their heads so close that his face was under her bonnet. As soon as the second peg was out, I helped up the front of the cart a little, and back it went, shooting them out right headforemost in the mud. You never saw such a scramble, for they had caught hold of each other in their fright, and they rolled and floundered, and were half smothered before they could recover their feet; and then a pretty pickle they were in, wet to the skin, and covered with mud from one end to the other; they could not see out of their eyes. Peggy did nothing but scream and flounder—she was frightened out of her wits—while the carman and I laughed ready to split. I gave him half a crown to drive on shore without them, which he did, and we left them to make their way out how they could; and a pretty pickle they did come out at last. Thus was their day’s pleasure as well as their clothes all spoilt; and instead of dancing at the fair and seeing all the sights, they were shivering in their wet clothes, and the laughingstocks to all that saw them.

“Depend upon it, I did not leave them after they had crawled out the beach. The fellow was, as you may suppose, as savage as a bull, and very saucy, so I took off my jacket that I might not dirty myself, and gave him a couple of black eyes and a bloody nose for his trouble; and as for Peggy, I pretended to be so sorry for her, and condoled with her so much, that at last she flew at me like a tigress,—and as I knew that there was no honour, and plenty of mud, to be gained by the conflict, I took to my heels and ran off to the fair, where I met some of my friends and told them what had happened, and then we had a very merry day of it, and I felt quite cured of my love: for, you see, Peggy looked so ugly and miserable when she was in the state I left her, that I had only to think of her as when I last saw her, and all my love was gone.”

“Did you ever meet her again?”

“I met her that very night; for, you see, she had gone to a cottage and taken off her clothes, having insisted upon her fancy man going back to Portsmouth to fetch her others to go home in. He dared not refuse, so off he went in the pickle that he was. But he didn’t come back again, for, you see, there was a warrant out against him for an affray at Bear Haven, in which a King’s officer was killed; and after he had changed his own clothes, and was proceeding to get some for her from the Chequers, he was met by the constable who had the warrant, and carried off handcuffed to gaol, and afterwards he was transported,—so she never saw him again. Well, Peggy, poor creature, had been waiting for him for hours, expecting his return; and it was past ten o’clock when I was coming down with some others, and saw her at the door of the cottage weeping.

“‘Good night, Peggy,’ says I.

“‘Oh, Philip, do be kind, do come to me; I’m frightened out of my life. I shall have to stay here all night.’

“So, you see, I did feel some little pity for her, and I went up to her, and she told me how she had sent him, and he had never come back again.

“‘The fact is,’ says I, ‘Peggy, you aren’t smart enough for such a Frenchified chap as he is. He don’t like to be seen in your company. Come, get up, and I will see you home, at all events;’ so I took charge of her, and saw her safe to her father’s door.

“‘Won’t you come in?’ said she.

“‘No, thank you,’ says I.

“‘Won’t you forgive me, Philip?’ said she.

“‘Yes,’ says I, ‘I’ll forgive you, for old acquaintance sake, and for one more reason.’

“‘What’s that?’ says Peggy.

“‘Why,’ says I, ‘for the lesson which you’ve learnt me. I’ve been made a fool of once, and it’s your fault; but if ever a woman makes a fool of me again, why, then it’s mine. And so, Peggy, good bye for ever.’

“So I turned away on my heel, and as I left the transport the next trip, I never saw her again.”

“Well, Bramble,” replied I, “I agree with you; and if ever a woman makes a fool of me again, it will be my fault. You know what’s happened, so I don’t mind saying so.”

“Why, Tom, in your present humour, you think so; but all do not keep to the same way of thinking as I did till it was too late to think about marrying; but still I do not think that I should have been happy as a single man, if it had not been for my falling in with Bessy. I should have been very lonely, I expect, for I began to feel so. When you come to your own door, Tom, home looks cheerless if there is no bright eye to welcome you, and the older a man gets the more he feels that he was not intended to live single. My yearning after something to love and to love me, which is in our nature, was satisfied, first by having Bessy, and then by having you—and I’m thankful.”

“You might have married, and have been very unhappy.”

“I might, and I might have been very happy, had I chosen a wife as a man should do.”

“And how is that, pray, Bramble?”

“Why, Tom, I’ve often thought upon it. In the first place look out for good temper: if you find that you may be happy, even if your wife is a silly woman; assure yourself first of her temper, and then you must judge her by the way in which she does those duties which have fallen to her lot; for if a girl is a dutiful and affectionate daughter there is little fear but that she will prove a loving and obedient wife. But I think we have had our spell here, Tom, and it’s rather cold: rouse up one of those chaps, and tell him to come to the helm. I’ll coil myself up and have a snooze till the morning, and do you do the same.”

Chapter Thirty Nine.

In which I receive a very severe blow from a party or parties unknown.

The day after this conversation we fell in with several vessels wind-bound at the entrance of the Channel. I took charge of one, and the wind shifting to the South West, and blowing strong, I carried her up to the Pool. As soon as I could leave her I took a boat to go down to Greenwich, as I was most anxious to have a long conversation with Virginia. It was a dark squally night, with rain at intervals between the gusts of wind, and I was wet through long before I landed at the stairs, which was not until past eleven o’clock. I paid the waterman, and hastened up to my mother’s house, being aware that they would either be all in bed or about to retire. It so happened that I did not go the usual way, but passed by the house of old Nanny; and as I walked by with a quick step, and was thinking of her and her misfortunes, I fell over something which, in the dark, I did not perceive, and which proved to be some iron railings, which the workmen who were fixing them up had carelessly left on the ground, previous to their returning to their work on the ensuing morning. Fortunately the spikes at the ends of them were from me, and I received no injury, except a severe blow on the shin; and as I stopped a moment to rub it, I thought that I heard a cry from the direction of old Nanny’s house; but the wind was very high, and I was not certain. I stopped and listened, and it was repeated. I gained the door; it was so dark that I groped for the latch. The door was open, and when I went in I heard a gurgling kind of noise and a rustling in her chamber. “Who’s there?—What’s this?” cried I; for I had a foreboding that something was wrong. I tumbled over some old iron, knocked down the range of keys, and made a terrible din, when, of a sudden, just as I had recovered my legs, I was thrown down again by somebody who rushed by me and darted out of the door. As the person rushed by me I attempted to seize his arm, but I received a severe blow on the mouth, which cut my lip through, and at first I thought I had lost all my front teeth.

I rose up. I heard a heavy groaning; so, instead of pursuing the robber, I felt my way into Nanny’s chamber. “Nanny,” said I, “mother, what’s the matter?” but there was no reply, except another groan. I knew where she kept her tinder-box and matches; I found them, and struck a light; and by the light of the match I perceived the candle and candlestick lying on the floor. I picked it up, lighted it, and then turned to the bed; the flock mattress was above all, and the groans proceeded from beneath. I threw it off, and found old Nanny still breathing, but in a state of exhaustion, and quite insensible. By throwing water on her face, after some little while I brought her to her senses. The flaring of the candle reminded me that the shop door was open; I went and made it fast, and then spoke to her. It was a long while before I could obtain any rational answer. She continued to groan and cry at intervals, “Don’t leave me, Jack, don’t leave me.” At last she fell into a sort of slumber from exhaustion, and in this state she remained for more than an hour. One thing was evident to me, which was, that the party, whoever it might be, had attempted to smother the poor old woman, and that in a few seconds more he would have perpetrated the deed.

At last old Nanny roused up, and turning to me, said, “It’s Jack, is it not? I thought so. Oh, my poor head! What has happened?”

“That’s what I want to know from you, mother,” replied I; “but first I will tell you what I know of the business.” Which I did, to give her time to collect her thoughts.

“Yes,” said she, “so it was. I was just in bed, and my candle was not out, when I heard a noise at the door, as if they were turning a key in it, and then a man entered; but he had something over his face, I thought, or he had blacked it. ‘What do you want?’ cried I. ‘I come for a light, old woman,’ said he. I cried, ‘Thieves! murder!’ as loud as I could, and he ran up to me just as I was getting out of bed, and tried to smother me. I don’t recollect anything more till I heard your voice. Thank you, Jack, and God bless you; if you hadn’t come to the assistance of a poor old wretch like me, I should have been dead by this time.”

I felt that what she said was true, and I then asked her many questions, so as to lead to the discovery of the party.

“How was he dressed?” inquired I.

“I can’t exactly say. But, do you know, Jack, I fancied that he had a pensioner’s coat on; indeed, I am almost sure of it. I think I tore off one of his buttons, I recollect its giving way; I may be wrong,—my head wanders.”

But I thought that most likely Nanny was right, so I looked down on the floor with the candle, and there I picked up a pensioner’s button.

“You’re right, Nanny; here is the button.”

“Well, now, Jack, I can’t talk any more; you won’t leave me tonight, I’m sure.”

“No, no, mother, that I will not. Try to go to sleep.”

Hardly had Nanny laid her head down again, when it came across my mind like a flash of lightning that it must have been Spicer who had attempted the deed; and my reason for so thinking was that the blow I had received on the mouth was not like that from the hand of a man, but from the wooden socket fixed to the stump of his right arm. The more I reflected upon it, the more I was convinced. He was a clever armourer, and had picked the lock; and I now recalled to mind what had never struck me before, that he had often asked me questions about old Nanny, and whether I thought the report that she had money was correct.

It was daylight before old Nanny woke up, and then she appeared to be quite recovered. I told her my suspicions, and my intentions to ascertain the truth of them as far as I possibly could.

“Well, and what then?” said old Nanny.

“Why, then, if we bring it home to him, he will be hanged, as he deserves.”

“Now, Jack, hear me,” said old Nanny. “You won’t do anything I don’t wish, I’m sure; and now I’ll tell you that I never would give evidence against him, or any other man, to have him hanged. So, if you find out that it is him, do not say a word about it. Promise me, Jack.”

“Why, mother, I can’t exactly say that I will; but I will talk to Peter Anderson about it.”

“It’s no use talking to him; and, if you do, it must be under promise of secrecy, or I will not consent to it. Jack, Jack, recollect that my poor boy was hanged from my fault. Do you think I will hang another? Oh, no. Perhaps this very man had a foolish wicked mother, like me, and has, like my boy, been led into guilt. Jack, you must do as I wish—you shall, Jack.”

“Well, mother, I have no animosity against the man himself: and, if you forgive him, I do not see why I should do anything.”

“I don’t forgive him, Jack; but I think of my own poor boy.”

“Well, mother, since you wish it, it shall be so; and if I do prove that the man I suspect is the party, I will say nothing, and make Anderson promise the same, as I think he will. But how is it that people come to rob a poor old woman like you? How is it, mother, that there is a report going about that you have money?”

“Is there such a report, Jack?”

“Yes, mother, every one says so; why, I do not know; and as long as it is supposed, you will always be subject to attacks like this, unless, indeed, if you have money, you were to put it away safely, and let everybody know that you have done so. Tell me truly, mother, have you any money?”

“Jack, what a boy you are to ask questions. Well, perhaps I have a little—a very little; but no one will ever find out where I have hidden it.”

“But they will try, mother, as this man has done, and you will always be in peril of your life. Why not place it into the hands of some safe person?”

“Safe person! Who’s safe nowadays?”

“Why, for instance, there’s Mr Wilson.”

“Wilson! what do you know about him, Jack, except that he has a smooth face and a bald head? You’re young, Jack, and don’t know the world. The money’s safe where it is, and no one will ever find it.”

“If so, who is to find it after—” I stopped, for I did not like to say, after she was dead.

“I know what you would have said, Jack; who’s to find it after my death? That’s very true. I never thought of that, and I must will it away. I never thought of that, Jack, it’s very true, and I’m glad that you have mentioned it. But who dare I tell? who can I trust?—Can I trust you, Jack?—can I?—I ought, for it’s all for you, Jack, when I die.”

“Mother, whoever it may be for, you may, I hope, trust me.”

“Well, I think I can. I’ll tell you where it is, Jack, and that will prove that it is for you, for nobody else will know where to find it. But Jack, dear, dear Jack, don’t you rob me, as my son did; don’t rob me, and leave me penniless, as he did; promise me?”

“I never will, mother; you need not be afraid.”

“Yes; so you say, and so he said; he swore and he cried too, Jack, and then he took it all, and left his mother without a farthing.”

“Well, mother, then don’t tell me; I’d rather not know: you will only be uncomfortable, and so let the money go.”

“No, Jack, that won’t do either; I will tell you, for I can trust you. But first, Jack, go out and look behind the house, that there is no one listening at the window; for if any one should hear—go, look round carefully, and then come back.”

I did as she wished, and then Nanny bid me hold my head closer to her, while she whispered, “You must take the back out of the fireplace, and then pull out three bricks, and then put your hand into the hole, and you will find a small box; and there you will find a little money,—a very little, Jack, hardly worth having, but still it may be of some use; and it’s all yours when I die, Jack,—I give it to you.”

“Mother, I’m thankful for your kindness, but I cannot touch it if you do die without you leave it to me by your will.”

“Ah! that’s true, Jack. Well, tell Anderson to come here, and I’ll tell him I’ll leave the money to you; but I won’t tell him where it is, I’ll only say that I leave you everything I have. They’ll suppose that it’s the shop and all the pretty things.” Here she chuckled for some time.

It was now broad daylight, and Nanny told me that she would like to get up, and see about a padlock being put to her door before night; so I wished her good bye, and left her.

Chapter Forty.

Showing the great advantages to be derived from patronage.

I left old Nanny, and arrived at my mother’s house in time for breakfast. I did not, however, find her in a very good humour; something had evidently ruffled her. Virginia also, who welcomed me most cordially, was taciturn and grave. My mother made but one observation during our repast.

“Well, Tom,” said she, “you’ve found out what it is to wish to marry for love; I only wish it may be a lesson to others.”

To this evident attack upon Virginia, at the expense of my feelings, I made no reply, and soon afterwards my mother went to superintend her establishment, leaving me and my sister alone.

“Tom,” said she, “I hope by this time you are no longer suffering from your late cruel disappointment. I have felt for you, I assure you, and, assuring you of that, will not again revert to the subject. Let her be blotted from your memory as soon as possible.”

“Be it so, my dear Virginia; but you are grave, and my mother is evidently out of humour. You must explain this.”

“That is easily done. I have made a sad mistake. I was so much annoyed at my mother’s system towards me that I ventured, without her knowledge, to write to Lady Hercules, requesting her protection and influence to procure me some situation as a companion to a lady, amanuensis, or reader. It appears that her ladyship was not very sincere in her professions when we had an interview with her; at all events, her reply was anything but satisfactory, and, unfortunately, it was addressed to my mother, and not to me. You can have no idea of my mother’s indignation upon the receipt of it, and she has not been sparing in her reproaches to me for having written without her knowledge, and having, by so doing, subjected her to such a mortification. I certainly am sorry to have done so. As for her ladyship’s answer, it would have been to me more a subject of mirth than any other feeling. It has, however, proved the cause of much annoyance from my mother’s continually harping upon it.”

“Have you the letter of Lady Hercules?”

“I have a copy of it, which I took, intending to have sent it to you the next time that I wrote. I will bring it down if you will wait a minute.”

When Virginia returned she put the following epistle into my hand:—

“Mrs Saunders,—

“I have received a letter from your daughter, which, I presume, was forwarded as a specimen of her penmanship; otherwise it was your duty to have addressed me yourself. I said to you, when I met you at Greenwich, that you were educating your daughter above her condition in life, and I now repeat it. My patronage is extended only to those who are not above their situations, which, I am sorry to observe, most people are now. Nevertheless, as I did say that I would exert my influence in your daughter’s behalf; in consequence of your having been a decent well-behaved menial to me, I have made inquiry among my aquaintances, and find that I may be, possibly, able to place her with my friend, Lady Towser, as a ‘boudoir assistant.’ I have said possibly, as I am by no means sure that she will be equal to the situation, and the number of applicants are very numerous. The enclosed paper from Lady Towser will give you an idea of what will be requisite:—

“Morning, up at 6, and nicely dressed; come in in list shoes, and wait at bedside, in case Lady Towser should be troubled with her morning cough, to hand the emulsion, etcetera. At 9, to call and assist to dress Lady Towser’s head tirewoman; follow her to Lady T’s chamber, and obey orders. Breakfast in housekeeper’s room. After breakfast assist housemaid to dust ornaments, and on Saturdays and Wednesdays wash, comb, and examine dogs; other days comb and examine them only; clean and feed macaw, cockatoo, and parrot, also canary and other birds; bring up dogs’ dinners, and prevent them fighting at meals. After dogs’ dinners read to Lady T if required; if not, get up collars and flounces, laces, etcetera, for Lady T and Lady T’s tirewoman. After your own dinner assist housekeeper as required in the still-room; fine needlework; repair clothes before they go to wash; dress and brush Lady T’s perukes; walk out with dogs if weather is fine, and be careful to prevent their making any acquaintances whatever.

“Evening.—Read to Lady T, write notes, look over bills, and keep general accounts; if not wanted, to make herself useful in housekeeper’s room, and obey all orders received from her or head tirewoman. At night see that the hot water is ready for Lady T’s feet, and wait for her retiring to bed; wash Lady T’s feet, and cut corns, as required; read Lady T to sleep, or, if not required to read, wait till she is certain that Lady T is so.

“Now the only points in which I think your daughter may fail is in properly washing, combing, and examining the dogs, and cutting her ladyship’s corns; but surely she can practise a little of both, as she will not be wanted for a month. There can be no difficulty about the first; and as for the latter, as all people in your rank of life have corns, she may practise upon yours or her father’s. At all events, there can be no want of corns in Greenwich Hospital among the pensioners. I am desired to say that Lady T gives no wages the first year; and you will be expected to send your daughter neatly fitted out, that she may be able to remain in the room when there is company. If this offer will not suit, I can do nothing more; the difficulty of patronage increases every day. You will send an answer.

“Virginia Hawkingtrefylyan.

“I was just closing my letter when Lady Scrimmage came in; she tells me that Lady Towser is suited, and that you have no hopes of this situation. I have done my best. Lady Scrimmage has, however, informed me that she thinks she can, upon my recommendation, do something for you in Greenwich, as she deals largely with a highly-respectable and fashionable milliner of the same name as your own, and with whom it would be of the greatest advantage to your daughter to be placed as an apprentice, or something of that sort. This is an opportunity not to be lost, and I therefore have requested Lady S to write immediately, and I trust, by my patronage, she will gain a most enviable situation.”

“That postscript is admirable,” observed I, “and ought to have put my mother in a good humour. Is she not called by Lady Hercules ‘highly respectable and fashionable’?”

“Very true,” replied Virginia; “but my mother cannot get over the first part of the letter, in which she is mentioned as ‘a decent and well-behaved menial.’ She has since received a note from Lady Scrimmage, requesting her to take me in some capacity or another, adding, by way of postscript, ‘You know you need not keep her if you do not like—it is very easy to send her away for idleness or impertinence; but I wish to oblige Lady Hercules, and so, pray, at all events, write and say that you will try her.’”

“And what has my mother said in reply?”

“She did not show me the answer; but, from what I have collected from her conversation, she has written a most haughty, and, I presume it will be said, a most impertinent letter to both the ladies; the one to Lady Scrimmage accompanied with her bill, which has not been paid these three years. I am sorry that my mother has been annoyed. My father, to whom I related what had taken place, told me that my mother was very ill treated by Lady Hercules, and that she had smothered her resentment with the hopes of benefiting her children by her patronage; but that was at a time when she little expected to be so prosperous as she is now.”

“It is all true, my dear girl; I recollect my father telling me the whole story. However, I presume my mother, now that she can venture upon defiance, has not failed to resort to it.”

“That I am convinced of. I only hope that she will carry her indignation against great people so far as not to court them as she has done, and abandon all her ridiculous ideas of making a match for me. After all, she has my welfare sincerely at heart, and, although mistaken in the means of securing it, I cannot but feel that she is actuated solely by her love for me.”

We then changed the conversation to Janet, about whom I could now speak calmly; after which I narrated to her what had occurred during the night, and my intention to consult with my father and Anderson upon the subject.

Virginia then left me that she might assist her mother, and I hastened to my father’s ward, where I found him, and, after our first greeting, requested that he would accompany me to Anderson’s office, as I had something to communicate to them both. As I walked along with my father I perceived Spicer at a corner with his foot on a stone step and his hand to his knee, as if in pain. At last he turned round and saw us. I walked up to him, and he appeared a little confused as he said, “Ah! Tom, is that you? I did not know you were at Greenwich.”

“I came here last night,” replied I; “and I must be off again soon. Are you lame?”

“Lame! No; what should make me lame?” replied he, walking by the side of us as if he were not so.

I looked at his coat, and perceived that the third button on the right side was missing.

“You’ve lost a button, Spicer,” observed I.

“So I have,” replied he; and, as we had now arrived at Anderson’s door, my father and I turned from him to walk in and wished him good bye.

Anderson was in his office, and as soon as the door was closed I communicated to them what had occurred during the night, expressing my conviction that Spicer was the party who had attempted the murder. In corroboration I reminded my father of the loss of the button from Spicer’s coat, and produced the one which Nanny had torn off.

“This is something more than suspicion,” observed Anderson; “but if; as you say, old Nanny will not give evidence against him, I know not what can be done. Did you say that the old woman wanted to speak with me?”

“Yes, and I really wish that you would call there oftener.”

“Well,” replied Anderson, “I’ll go, Tom; but, to be plain with you, I do not think that I can be of much use there. I have been several times: she will gossip as long as you please; but if you would talk seriously, she turns a deaf ear. You see, Tom, there’s little to be gained when you have to contend with such a besetting sin as avarice. It is so powerful, especially in old age, that it absorbs all other feelings. Still it is my duty, and it is also my sincere wish, to call her to a proper sense of her condition. The poor old creature is, like myself; not very far from the grave; and, when once in it, it will be too late. I will go, Tom, and most thankful shall I be if; with God’s help, I may prove of service to her.”

We then left old Anderson to his duties, and my father went home with me. We had a long conversation relative to my sister, as well as about my own affairs. I had intended to have remained some days at Greenwich, but this was the first time that I had been there since Janet’s desertion, and the sight of everything so reminded me of her, and made everything so hateful to me, that I became very melancholy. My mother was, moreover, very cross, and my sister anything but comfortable; and, on the third day, having received a letter from Bramble, stating that he had arrived at Deal, and that the easterly winds having again set in, they talked of setting out again in the galley, I made this an excuse for leaving; and for the first time did I quit Greenwich without regret.

Chapter Forty One.

In which it is proved that sailors have very correct ideas as to metempsychosis.

The day after my return to Deal I again embarked with Bramble and three others, to follow up our vocation. The second day we were abreast of the Ram Head, when the men in another pilot boat, which had come out of Plymouth and was close to us, waved their hats and kept away to speak to us. We hove-to for them.

“Have you heard the news?” cried one of the men.

“No.”

“Lord Nelson has beat the French and Spanish fleet.”

“Glad to hear it—huzza!”

“Lord Nelson’s killed.”

“Lord Nelson’s killed!!” The intelligence was repeated from mouth to mouth, and then every voice was hushed; the other boat hauled her wind without further communication, nor did we at the time think of asking for any more. The shock which was given to the whole country was equally felt by those who were seeking their bread in a small boat, and for some little while we steered our course in silence.

“What d’ye say, my lads,” said Bramble, who first broke silence; “shall we haul up for Cawsand, and get a paper? I shan’t be content till I know the whole history.”

This was consented to unanimously; no one thought of piloting vessels for the moment, and earning food for their families. When the country awarded a public funeral to our naval hero, it did not pay him a more sincere tribute than was done in this instance by five pilots in a galley. At Cawsand we obtained the newspaper, and after a few pots of beer, we again made sail for the mouth of the Channel. It hardly need be observed, that the account of this winding-up, as it proved, of our naval triumphs, with the death of Nelson, was the subject of conversation for more than one day. On the third, we were all separated, having fallen in with many wind-bound vessels who required our services. The one I took charge of was a West Indiaman, deeply laden with rum and sugar, one of a convoy which were beating about in the Chops of the Channel. As we were standing out from the English coast, the captain and one of the passengers were at the taffrail close to me.

“What do you think of the weather, pilot?” said the captain.

“I think we shall have a change of wind, and dirty weather before twelve hours are over our heads,” replied I.

“Well,” said he, “that’s my opinion; there is a cloud rising in the south-west; and, look, there are some Mother Carey’s chickens dipping in the water astern.”

“Where?” said the passenger, a curly-headed Creole, about twenty years old.

“Those small birds,” replied the captain, walking forward. The passenger went down below, and soon returned with his double-barrelled fowling-piece.

“I have long wished to shoot one of those birds,” said he; “and now they are so near, I think I may get a shot.”

He raised his piece several times without firing, when the captain came aft, and perceiving his intention, caught his arm as he was about to level again.

“I beg your pardon, Mr Higgins, but I really must request that you will not fire at those birds.”

“Why not?”

“Because I cannot permit it.”

“But what’s to hinder me?” replied the young man, colouring up; “they are not in your manifest, I presume.”

“No, sir, they are not; but I tell you frankly, that I would not kill one for a hundred pounds. Nay, I would as soon murder one of my fellow-creatures.”

“Well, that may be your feeling, but it’s not mine.”

“Nevertheless, sir, as it is, to say the least of it, very unlucky, you will oblige me by yielding to my request.”

“Nonsense!—just to humour your superstitious feeling.”

“We are not in port yet, Mr Higgins; and I must insist upon it you do not fire. You have taken my gunpowder, and I cannot allow it to be used in that way.”

During this altercation I observed that many of the sailors had come aft, and, although they said nothing, were evidently of the same opinion as the captain. I was aware that there was a superstitious feeling among the seamen relative to these birds, but I had never seen it so strongly exemplified before.

The mate gave a wink to the captain, behind the passenger’s back, and made a motion to him to go forward, which the captain did.

The passenger again raised his gun, when it was seized by two of the seamen.

“You must not fire at these birds, sir!” said one of them.

“Why, you scoundrel?—I’ll give you the contents of both barrels if you don’t leave my gun alone.”

“No, you won’t—you’re not among niggers now, master,” replied the seaman; “and as you have threatened to shoot me, I must take the gun from you.”

A scuffle ensued, during which both barrels were discharged in the air, and the gun taken from Mr Higgins, who was boiling with rage: the gun was handed forward, and I saw it no more. Mr Higgins, in state of great excitement, went down into the cabin.

The captain then came aft to me, when I observed that I had no idea that seamen were so very particular on that point; and I thought that they had gone too far.

“You may think so, pilot,” replied he, “but when I tell you that I fully believe that these birds are as good as ourselves, you will not be surprised—”

“How do you mean, as good as ourselves?”

“I believe that they were every one sailors like ourselves in former times; they are now the sailors’ friends, come to warn us of the approaching storm, and I can tell you a circumstance which occurred in the West Indies, which fully proves to me that they are not wantonly killed without a judgment upon those who do so. I never believed it myself till then; but old Mason, who is now on board, was one of the seamen of the vessel in which the circumstance happened.”

“Indeed!” replied I, “I should like to hear it.”

“I can’t tell you now,” said he; “I must go down and satisfy that puppy Creole, whose sugars are on board; he will otherwise make such a row between me and the owners, that I may lose the command of the vessel. And yet, would you imagine it? although he will not credit what I tell him about Mother Carey’s chickens, the foolish young man firmly believes in the Obi.”

I did not think one superstition more ridiculous than the other, but still, as I always found that it was useless to argue such points, I said nothing, and the captain went down into the cabin to pacify. Mr Higgins.

It was late in the first watch, and when the passengers had retired to bed, that the captain came on deck. “Well,” said he, “I told Mr Higgins my story, and as there was a bit of Obi nonsense in it, he believed it, and he has not only made friends, but thanked me for not having allowed him to shoot the birds; and now I’ll tell you the real story:—

“A schooner was coming down from the Virgin Isles with sugar and passengers to Antigua, where I was lying with my ship. She had a fine young fellow of the name of Shedden on board; and, besides other passengers, there was an old black woman, who, where she resided, had always been considered as an Obi woman. I saw her afterwards; and you never beheld such a complication of wrinkles as she was, from her forehead to her feet, and her woolly head was as white as snow. They were becalmed as soon as they were clear of the islands; and, as it happened, some Mother Carey’s chickens were flying about the stern. Shedden must needs get at his gun to shoot them. The old black woman sat near the taffrail; she saw him with his gun, but she said nothing. At last he fired, and killed three of them.

“‘There are three down!’ cried out some of the other passengers.

“‘How many?’ said the old woman, raising her head; ‘three! Then count the sharks which are coming up.’

“‘Count the sharks, mother! why count them? There’s plenty of them,’ replied Shedden, laughing.

“‘I tell you that there will be but three sent,’ replied the old woman who then sunk down her head and said no more.

“Well, the negroes who were passengers on board, most of them Mr Shedden’s slaves, look very blank, for they knew that old Etau never spoke without reason. In about ten minutes afterwards, three large sharks swam up to the vessel, with their fins above water.

“‘There’s the three sharks, sure enough!’ said the passengers.

“‘Are they come?’ said Etau, raising her head.

“‘Yes, moder, dere dey be—very large shark,’ replied one of the negroes.

“‘Then three are doomed,’ said the old woman, ‘and here we stay, and the waves shall not run, nor the wind blow, till the three sharks have their food. I say three are doomed!’

“The passengers were more or less alarmed with this prophecy of old Etau’s, according as they put faith in her; however, they all went to bed quite well, and the next morning they got up the same. Still there was not a breath of wind, the whole sea was as smooth as glass, and the vessel laid where she was the night before, in about six fathoms water, about a mile from the reef, and you could see the coral rocks beneath her bottom as plain as if they were high and dry; and what alarmed them the next morning was that the three large sharks were still slowly swimming round and round the schooner. All that day it remained a dead calm, and the heat was dreadful, although the awnings were spread. Night came on, and the people, becoming more frightened, questioned old Etau, but all the answer she gave was, ‘Three are doomed!’

“The passengers and crew were now terrified out of their wits, and they all went to bed with very melancholy forebodings, for the elements appeared as if they were arrested till the penalty was paid. For, you observe, pilot, there is always a light breeze as regular as the sun rises and goes down; but now the breezes only appeared to skirt the land, and when they came from the offing invariably stopped two or three miles from the schooner. It was about midnight that there was a stir in the cabin, and it appeared that Mr Shedden had the yellow fever, and shortly afterwards another white man, a sailor belonging to the schooner, then one of Mr Shedden’s slaves. Well, there the fever stopped,—no one else was taken ill,—the usual remedies were applied, but before morning they were all three delirious. At sunrise it was still calm, and continued so till sunset; and all the day the passengers were annoyed by the back fins of the three sharks, which continued to swim about. Again they went to bed, and just before one o’clock in the morning Mr Shedden, in his delirium, got out of his bed, and, rushing on the deck, jumped overboard before any one could prevent him; and old Etau, who never left where she sat, was heard to say, ‘One!’ and the bell was struck one by the sea man forward, who did not know what had happened. Morning came on again, and there were but two sharks to be seen. About noon the other white man died, and he was thrown overboard; and as one shark seized his body and swam away, old Etau cried out, ‘Two!’ An hour afterwards the negro died, and was thrown overboard and carried away by the third shark, and old Etau cried out, ‘Three! the price is paid!’

“Well, every one crowded round the old woman to hear what she would say, and they asked her if all was over, and whether they should have any wind? and her reply was, ‘When the three birds come from the sea to replace those which were killed.’ For you see, pilot, if one of these birds is killed, it is certain that some one of the crew must die and be thrown overboard to become a Mother Carey chicken, and replace the one that has been destroyed. Well, after a time, although we never saw them rise, three Mother Carey’s chickens were seen dipping and flying about astern of the schooner; and they told old Etau, who said, ‘You’ll have wind and plenty—and plenty of waves to make up for the calm;’ and so they had, sure enough, for it came on almost a hurricane, and the schooner scudded before it under bare poles until she arrived at Antigua, with her bulwarks washed away, and a complete wreck. I was there at the time, and old Mason, who was on board, told me the story, and asked me to take him, as he would not remain on board of the schooner. And now I leave you to judge, after knowing this to be a fact, whether I was not right in preventing Mr Higgins from shooting the Mother Carey chickens?”

“Why, yes,” replied I, “with such a fact before my eyes, I should have done the same.”

Mr Higgins not venturing to kill any of these receptacles for the souls of departed seamen, we arrived safely at the Downs, where I gave up charge to a river pilot, for the other vessels which Bramble and our companions had taken charge of were all bound to the Downs, and arrived at nearly the same time that I did, and we had agreed to embark again in the galley, and run out in quest of the remainder of the convoy. This we did on the following day, much to the vexation of Bessy, who declared we only came on shore to be off again. I ought to observe that Bessy and I had become much more intimate since the explanation which had taken place; and although it never entered my head that I should ever feel towards her more than as a brother to a sister, I was pleased and soothed with the touching proofs of kindness and commiseration which she took every opportunity of showing towards me.

Chapter Forty Two.

A heavy gale, a wreck and a rescue.

We had run out in our galley as far as the Start, when the appearance of the weather became very threatening. It was just about the time of the equinoctial gales, and there was a consultation among us whether we should run into Torquay or return to Deal.

Bramble observed, that as the gale coming on would, in all probability, blow for three days, he thought it was no use remaining all that time at Torquay, where we should be put to extra expense, and that we should be better on shore at our own homes. This remark decided the point, and about dusk we put the boat’s head along shore for up Channel. The wind was at that time about Sou’-Sou’-West, but occasionally shifting a point or two. The sky had become covered over with one black mass of clouds, which hung down so low that they appeared almost to rest on the water; and there was that peculiar fitful moaning which is ever the precursor of a violent gale of wind. At nightfall we reefed our lug-sails; and, while one sat at the helm, the rest of us lounged against the gunnel, buttoned up in our pilot jackets; some shutting their eyes, as if to invite sleep, others watching the waves, which now rose fast, and danced and lapped at the weather broadside as if they would fain have entered into the boat. But of that we had little fear; our galley was one of the finest boats that ever swam, and we felt as secure as if we were on board of a three-decked ship. As the night advanced, so did the wind increase and the sea rise; lightning darted through the dense clouds, and for a moment we could scan the horizon. Everything was threatening; yet our boat, with the wind about two points free, rushed gallantly along, rising on the waves like a sea-bird, and sinking into the hollow of the waters as if she had no fear of any attempt on their part to overwhelm her. Thus did we continue to run on during the night, every hour the gale increasing, the billows mounting up until they broke in awful and majestic crests, and often so near to us that we presented our backs in a close file against the weather bulwarks to prevent any body of water from pouring in.

“We shall have light soon,” observed one of the men.

“And we shall want it to beach the boat in such weather as this,” replied another. “We shall have it harder yet before day.”